Pursuits Of Human Nature In The 41st Millennium
by OnyxIdol
Summary: It's ambition and desire that drive all human endeavors. But faced with the horrors of total war, can ideals be preserved and goals remain untainted? The 13th Black Crusade descends upon the galaxy, and Aeren's journey will soon lead him right into the middle of it... (Sequel to "When Trees Grow On Stones")
1. The Temple in the Forest

1 - The Temple In The Forest

 _With a high pitched screech the drop pod_ _s_ _pierce the black clouds like a swarm of artificial meteors. Trailing long plumes of fire, they rain down on the_ _barren,_ _densely_ _built-up_ _landscape; a few at first, then more, and more, and more._ _H_ _undreds. Thousands. In answer,_ _a_ _host_ _of anti air_ _batteries_ _fill the_ _air_ _with a cacophony of_ _their_ _own,_ _sending_ _million_ _s_ _of projectiles upwards_ _, glowing in the night like sparks. Hundreds of the_ _pods_ _are hit in midair_ _and_ _explode_ _;_ _it is as if they were sprouting, albeit_ _prematurely, and light up_ _the sky_ _with_ _a_ _field of fiery_ _flowers_ _in_ _yellow, orange and red._ _But many more of the_ _se baleful_ _seeds_ _continue their descent unchecked. As they near the ground, their braking thrusters fire,_ _and they_ _decelera_ _te_ _just enough as to not_ _bury_ _themselves in the scarred rockcrete. And where they land, their sides fall away,_ _blossoms of a different_ _kind_ _dot_ _ting_ _the streets and plazas._ _A_ _nd_ _finally_ _they disgorge the_ _ir poisonous_ _charge_ _:_ _t_ _raitor Astartes._ _Immediately_ _,_ _the battle spills into the streets, as_ _attackers and_ _defenders_ _meet_ _in close combat. The_ _f_ _ighting is brutal and unrelenting;_ _f_ _or_ _the garrisons_ _are_ _Astartes as well,_ _and as_ _both sides were_ _once united in camaraderie, so are they now divided by_ _inhuman_ _hatred and_ _contempt. As equal fights equal, no longer_ _can_ _either side_ _reap the advantage of_ _their prodigious_ _degree;_ _the scales are balanced, their aptitude of no greater difference than among_ _ordinary_ _men._ _Now,_ _only th_ _ose_ _will_ _prevail_ _who_ _truly_ _rise above_ _their_ _estranged_ _kin_ _._

 _Meanw_ _hile, the_ _thick_ _clouds are black no longer._ _T_ _rue, they are_ _still_ _lit by the_ _swarm_ _of exploding drop pods,_ _each vomiting color_ _with_ _violent_ _fury._ _B_ _ut that is not all:_ _t_ _hey_ _have_ _beg_ _u_ _n to shine with a light of their own: red, purple, and other colors that have no names in the_ _waking_ _world_ _. Lightning crack_ _les_ _on their hems_ _,_ _i_ _lluminating_ _abyssal_ _vistas terrible and_ _feverous_ _._ _And in the opened maw of this_ _churning_ _pandaemonium are the faces:_ _leering, laughing, screaming; incorporeal and inhuman._ _They delight in the_ _orgy of_ _flesh_ _and insanity_ _that unfolds below, savor it, feast on_ _it_ _._ _And down on the surface, the invaders, tiny as ants_ _under the burning skies, are of course aware of their_ _audience_ _, and howl in_ _ecstatic_ _exultation to their otherworldly_ _patrons,_ _who_ _have_ _joined them_ _in this hour_ _to witness_ _their ultimate_ _triumph_ _._

 _And under their unsleeping eyes the traitors slowly force their way through the streets; under the red light from above, and through the deep shadows cast by the abandoned highrises and gilded spires. For now, the anti air emplacements and the nearby spaceports are their primary objectives._

 _But their_ _ultimate goal_ _lies_ _far off in the distance_ _:_ _there,_ _a titanic edifice_ _towers_ _above everything._ _It_ _stretch_ _es_ _over the horizon as far as the eye can see; brooding, defiant, a mere_ _dark_ _silhouette_ _in_ _the flickering twilight. A_ _seat of power, a fortress, and now a sanctuary_ _,_ _erected over the tops of ancient mountains_ _. Th_ _is_ _is w_ _h_ _ere all their pursuits are directed,_ _where_ _all their fury and resent_ _drive them_ _. Many will lose their lives_ _trying_ _to_ _reach it,_ _and many_ _will die_ _trying to_ _stem_ _th_ _eir_ _dark tide_ _. It will take them many weeks_ _to reach it's adamantine gate;_ _a_ _nd_ _all the w_ _h_ _ile_ _will they be accompanied by the soundless laughter of the faces above._

* * *

Aeren ran. Around him, the majestic forest stretched as far as the eye could see; which, admittedly, wasn't all that far. It _was_ night after all; and yet, Aeren carried no light. Many meters above, where the branches spread out from the mighty trunks to form the latticed roof of this silvan cathedral, the wood was spattered with rose-colored moonlight. While not an ample light source, it was _just_ enough for his bionic eye to allow him to see where he was going. His vision was now composite: the image provided by his own eye, sharp but dark, and laid over that, the one of the artificial supplement, brighter but of a somewhat lower resolution. When he had first received the prosthetic, this dichotomy had troubled him, but the intense training back on the Deimos had allowed him to get acquainted with his new eyesight, and by now he was fairly used to it.

The forest fascinated him. He had never seen anything like it. Sure, he had seen trees while training with his Guard unit in the hinterlands of Ocallus, but those couldn't really compare to the vast, ancient portico he was traversing now. The trees themselves were clad in a pale, almost white bark, and the centuries had made their mighty roots turn hard as stone. The reason for their lack of color was, he had learned, that their dense foliage and thick, interwoven branches allowed barely any sunlight to pass through; even in daytime, it would be fairly dark down here.

As dark as it was, as quiet was it. There was no wind, and there were no animals about. The night was still young, and life in the forest was still hiding away in its burrows and crevices. Only with the arrival of the rains the animals and plants would stir from their hibernation for a short time of bloom and frantic activity, and to turn the wheel of life once more.

He was unused to this sort of silence. Growing up in a hive, he had always been surrounded by some manner of noise, and even in the depths of the Deimos there had been the drone of the machines to accompany him. But here, there were only three sounds: the taps of his boots on the hard, dry floor, echoing through this hallowed wooden hall; his own panting breath, condensing in the crisp night air; and, although more felt than heard, the strong, steady throb of his twin hearts.

The latter reminded him very diligently of the fact that he was no longer fully human, and would become only more so the further he progressed on his way to become a full Astartes. In the last couple of months, he had often felt like a stranger in his own body; although he was in prime physical condition, his rapid growth both in terms of height and muscle scared him at times. Whenever he looked into a mirror, he was astounded by the effects of the strange and arcane processes that were transforming his body into a living weapon; his scars, and his bionic eye, completed the strange impression. But for all this physical alienation, he couldn't help but think it rather appropriate, considering how different this new, second life was to compared to the one he had spent most of his years in.

In the distance, he could begin to make out his destination: a rock wall, jagged and overgrown, rising from the forest floor in a steep angle. When he was still about fifty meters away, he turned to the right, and continued his run, keeping the wall to his left. After a few minutes, he came to a narrow swath crossing his way. Fragments of old stone betrayed the ghost of a road, long abandoned and fallen into disrepair. He turned and followed the uneven path to the point where it met the wall. Steps, tall and irregular, had been carved in to the rock there. Using his hands as well as his feet, he began his ascent.

He reckoned that he needed about two minutes to get to the top. He took a moment to catch his breath and looked around. Below him lay the treetops, stretching to the horizon on three sides. But Ahead of him lay a slope, rising to the top of this mesa. About ten meters before him began another treeline, although these were of a different kind: smaller, and darker, hardy and gnarled. In the sky above, rain clouds were weaving an increasingly dense blanket; but here and there, the landscape still shone with the soft glow that pierced the gray shroud in places. It came from Mahamat's moons, Agraj and Anuja, which were looking down on the world, the former almost half full and high in the sky, the latter only a sliver of a sickle, resting deep over the horizon.

For a few minutes, Aeren just soaked in the vista, the quiet, the peace. Then he fell into a light jog again, following the trail that led from the stairs into the trees and towards the top of the rock.

* * *

It took him only a few minutes to reach the end of his run: before him loomed ancient stone walls, withered and overgrown. Although the temple had been abandoned a long time ago, the stone buildings and the cupolae that crowned them were still in fairly good repair, albeit empty. Isolated as it was, perched on top of this mesa deep in the primeval forests, it had never been very prominent in the public consciousness; a circumstance that the original builders had very much appreciated. It hadn't been a place of grandiose ceremonies and mass worship; instead, for quiet contemplation and secluded meditation, never housing more than around sixty people at a time. Its design and interior, stark and frugal, reflected its solemn purpose. When the last of its recluses had died, alone and forgotten, it had slipped into oblivion for many years. Now, it had been reclaimed, although the nature of the new occupants would have likely filled the monks of yore with outrage.

Aeren passed the stone statue that guarded the entrance; when they had arrived here, he had recognized it as another depiction of Arjun, as usual armed with bow and spear. The boy threw him a casual salute, heedless of the stone warrior's disapproving blind glare.

Behind the now empty archway lay the temple's central yard, where he came to stop, finally back at his starting point and fairly exhausted. For a few moments, he just stood there, catching his breath and looking for the one with whom he had come here; Errake, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Ahead of him was the entrance to the shrine, wherein they had made their camp. Light shone from the corridor which led into the central chamber, so this was were Aeren went next. Inside, he found the two promethium lamps they had brought activated; but what really caught his eye was, as always, the mural that covered most of the far wall. Although time had left its marks on it, one could still recognize a human shape, although composed of two very different halves: the left side showed a regal figure, clad in golden armor and wielding a flaming blade; but the right side was a gaunt specter, shrouded in plain black cloth, a sickle in hand. The backgrounds were also different, depicting scenes of day and night, respectively. The subject of the artwork was, of course, the Emperor, as the locals perceived him: equal parts light and shadow, bringer of both life and death. At first, Aeren had found this rather unorthodox depiction curious, and wondered by himself whether something like this wouldn't be considered downright heretical in some places. He smiled and shook his head. _Guess_ _you can't completely disabuse people of doing things a little different here and there._

Apart from their equipment, the chamber was empty, and so Aeren decided to look elsewhere for his master. He turned around. Outside the entrance stood Errake, bolter at the ready. Both his armor and weapon seemed to downright swallow the sparse light, hampering any attempts to make out details. "You're dead," came his gravelly voice. Aeren felt a tinge of annoyance. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he trained, the old bastard always seemed to expect more of him.

"Awesome, that means I can go to sleep now."

"Like hell. Get out here."

Aeren stared incredulously. "You're kidding, right?"

"You know me better than that."

"Son of a bitch."

They took places in the yard, a few meters apart. His sweat-drenched clothes were rapidly cooling in the cold night air, and Aeren shivered. Errake had mag-locked his bolter to his armor and now stood there, unarmed, a black silhouette with an aura of twilight spilling from the shrine behind him.

"So, what could you have done better?" he asked.

Aeren was becoming seriously irritated. Still, he considered the previous situation. "I _suppose_ I could have moved away from the corridor; that way, you couldn't have aimed at me."

"Good. But it's a late insight. Always be aware of your surroundings. You need to know what the weak and strong positions are. In some ways, it's like reading, only you aren't reading a book but the battlefield."

Aeren ground his teeth. "Only this _isn't_ a battlefield."

"It could be one. _Never_ assume that no one is going to attack you. I thought they would've taught you that much in the Guard. But perhaps I gave them too much credit."

The boy's face was contorted with anger. "Are you done?"

"For the moment. Now, attack me."

Aeren lunged at him, knife in hand. He put all his furious energy in the attack; but even while he was doing it, he realized he was making a mistake, as his aching body couldn't back up his emotions. But it was too late to save himself; Errake casually caught his wrist in a vice like grip and twisted it.

Aeren screamed, and was forced down on one knee, turned away from the Astartes. "AAARGH! Motherfucker, what's even the point?! I can't beat you anyway!"

"One point is that you let your anger get the better of you."

Aeren tried to free himself, but Errake didn't budge one millimeter. "IT WOULDN'T MAKE A DIFFERENCE!"

"Perhaps not now. But one day, it will."

He shoved Aeren forward, and the boy fell; his chin smashed into the hard, cold ground.

"Asshole!" he screamed. He jumped up and turned around. Once more, his breath was heavy, but this time with rage. His face was a mask of pure hatred. With the back of his right hand, he wiped blood from his chin. "One day, I will kill you."

Errake said nothing for a few moments, just staring at him from the black pits of his helmet. "You'll have to do a lot better than this for that."

More seconds passed while they just stared at each other. Then, a drop of cold water hitting him on the head roused Aeren from his vengeful fantasy, and then another and another. The Great Rain had come.

Errake turned his face skywards. "Rest. Out here. Should cool your head." And with that, he turned around and disappeared in the shrine. Aeren felt like he was about to start crying with rage. But then he just shuffled over, and stood under the shrine's canopy, leaning against the stone wall and wrapping his arms around himself.

* * *

Errake had been right with one thing: standing in the cold _did_ clear his mind. After a few minutes it occurred to him that he ought to move to keep his temperature up; and so he began to work his aching body. He did squats, push ups and other exercises, and after a while, he lost all sense of time. Moreover, all conscious thought vanished, his entire being absorbed into his routine, submerged into a state somewhere between waking and dreaming.

* * *

Inside the shrine, Errake meditated. Making use of his catalepsean node, he allowed part of his brain to rest, foregoing actual sleep. He was of course long practiced in this, and was used to his mind losing a bit of his usual razor-sharpness, and some memories becoming temporarily unavailable. In spite of this, his mind remained a finely tuned machine, constantly parsing what few sensations currently came to him. Occasionally, he caught the faint noises of the boy's training. Hours passed. Eventually, the familiar crackle in his ear alerted him to an incoming message.

"Errake, this is Endymion. Do you copy?"

"Yes, Endymion, I hear you. What is it?"

"It's almost time. The Roach doth approach."

"How long until she lands?"

"They have just left the warp. They'll make planetfall in eight hours."

"Pick us up in seven, then."

"All right. Endymion out."

The comm fell silent. Outside, the rain continued to patter on the stone; apart from that, it was silent. Errake stepped through the corridor. It was barely big enough to accommodate an Astartes in full plate. He found Aeren lying on the floor next to the passage, crouched into a fetal position and shivering.

"Aeren," he said. The boy didn't answer. "Aeren," he said again, louder. The boy stirred and turned his head towards him, eyes fluttering. "Get up. It's time." Slowly, the boy uncurled. Errake bent down, offering a helping hand. The boy, still only half awake, grabbed it, and Errake pulled him to his feet. "In there." He steered the boy inside. When they reached the chamber, Aeren dropped next to the promethium burner closest to him, curling up once more. "Wait. Dry clothes, first." The boy still didn't answer, but he slowly, mechanically, removed his damp garments and put on the ones that Errake handed to him. Once done, he again assumed a fetal position, his shivering slowly abating. Within a minute, he had fallen asleep. Errake covered him with a blanket.

* * *

 **AN: So. This took way too fucking long. There are a bunch of reasons for this, among them health issues and a rewatch of the entirety of Deep Space Nine. But the main reason was, that I once again tried to force myself to write something that wasn't part of my initial vision, and that I ultimately couldn't make work. Ah well, lesson learned (as if). The .odt that contains all my failed attempts sits at twelve page** **s** **, most of which you won't get to see now. C'est la vie. Perhaps I can cannibalize parts of it further down the road.**

 **Although this took so long, the story has always been on my mind in some way or another, it never really let me go; somehow I feel that this is something I have to write, because I hate to leave things unfinished; I am a bit obsessive in this regard. Hope you enjoyed the first chapter.**

* * *

 **Thank you for reading!**


	2. Transition

2 – Transition

 _They fight. Their immediate targets fall quickly. With the nearby spaceports under their control, the traitors are able to call down powerful reinforcements: titans, god machines; the pinnacle of ground based siege weaponry. During their long service in the Warmaster's armies, they have become as corrupted as as any of his servants, their machine spirits twisted into sinister and bloodthirsty specters._

 _Giving the crushing soles of these mechanical predators a wide berth, the soldiers advance toward the enemy's final and ultimate bastion. They are a motley horde: Astartes, cultists, mutants and daemons. Wherever they come, the warp manifests itself even further, and with it, the boons and weapons of the dark gods. Here, an entire company of Imperial Fists get engulfed, only to reappear as the tormented protagonists of a living mural, their flesh and souls banished into writhing stone, screaming with the voices of the damned. There, statues of imperial heroes are animated with baleful life, transformed with sickening irony into a perversion of everything they represent. Their horrible eyes burn like coals as they slowly lumber over the battlefield, swinging their weapons with little finesse but terrible power._

 _But although many of the defenders are consumed by the horrors that are visited upon them, many remain steadfast; for they know, the Master of Mankind is with them, and so are three of his chosen sons. And every meter the invaders wrest from them must be paid in blood._

 _Among the advancing traitors is the one simply known as Errake. He will make a name for himself in the dark millennia to come, but at the moment he is still a mere captain, an afterthought, marching in the shadow of demigods and living legends._

 _Yet even now, he is already a seasoned veteran. He was there, at the dawn of the Great Crusade, almost three hundred years ago. Once, he fought the Emperor's enemies across a thousand worlds; now, he only follows his Primarch and Warmaster, an asset in Horus' endeavor to bring to ruin everything previously accomplished._

 _Errake leads his own, and his brothers too, have seen much battle. Over the years, they have formed strong bongs, coalescing into a closely knit whole. Among themselves, little needs to be said for coordination, intimate familiarity rendering most words obsolete. But even their numbers will be drained, whittled away in the coming days._

 _Eventually, the host assembles before the walls of the Imperial Palace, lit still mostly by the fires of war and the inferno of unholy lightning above. For a moment, the guns fall silent, and even the roiling skies become quiet, as if holding their breath in anticipation. One of the attackers makes his way to the front. He towers over most of the soldiers, and his armor conveys a disposition both bloody and barbaric. He is Angron, Primarch of the World Eaters, and leader of Horus' ground troops in this sortie. A mighty roar rises from his lips, which is as close to a bid for parley as he will ever come._

" _HEAR ME, SLAVES OF THE FALSE EMPEROR! I BRING THE TERMS FOR YOUR SURRENDER! LET US SPEAK, WHILE THERE IS STILL TIME FOR IDLE WORDS!"_

 _For a few seconds, nothing happens, Angron's call echoing along the walls and buttresses of the mighty fortress. Then a light appears, high up on the battlements, small but powerful, a star of purity in this sea of madness. Those with sharp eyes recognize a figure, clad in golden armor and with two shining white wings on his back; and it hurts them to look at his radiance._

" _I hear you, traitor." The voice is calm, yet carries easily even to the last rows of the assembled. Indeed, it is more felt than heard, and many screech and growl in discomfort; even the angel's voice is anathema to them._ " _Name your terms then, if you think they will serve a purpose other than increasing your folly."_

" _VERY WELL." With mocking flourish, Angron unrolls a huge parchment. It is made from human skins and written on in blood._

" _FIRSTLY: THE FALSE EMPEROR WILL ABDICATE AND RELINQUISH ALL CLAIMS TO POWER, NOW AND FOREVER._

 _SECONDLY: THE FALSE EMPEROR WILL ANSWER FOR HIS CRIMES AND SUBMIT TO THE MERCIFUL JUDGMENT OF THE WARMASTER HORUS._

 _AND FINALLY: ALL SERVANTS OF THE FALSE EMPEROR WILL SWEAR FEALTY TO THE WARMASTER AND BOW TO THE DARK GODS."_

 _He tosses the scroll to the side. For a moment, a ghostly silence descends over the landscape once more._

" _I have heard your terms. Hear you now my answer."_

 _Sanguinius' voice has changed; it is cold, and betrays the anger incited by the preposterous demands declaimed by his fallen brother. Then, the storm breaks:_

" _WE REJECT YOUR TERMS UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY! OUR LORD AND MASTER SHALL NOT BOW TO ANYONE, NEITHER YOU, NOR HORUS, NOR THESE SO-CALLED 'GODS' BEFORE WHOM YOU PROSTRATE YOURSELVES! BEGONE FROM THIS WORLD, AND TAKE_ _THE WARP-FILTH_ _WITH YOU! YOU WERE ONCE A SLAVE, ANGRON, AND A SLAVE YOU HAVE BECOME AGAIN! GO, OR NONE OF YOU SHALL BE SPARED!"_

 _The angel's aura flares with his words, becoming even brighter in his fury._

 _Angron turns to the waiting host and sneers. "Well, I'm glad that's over with." Then he looks to the brooding palace walls once more. "BRING. IT. DOWN!"_

 _A mighty roar rises to the heavens, as_ _millions of_ _voices answer_ _his command._ _  
_

* * *

Aeren woke to the deafening noise of thunderhawk engines. He opened his eyes; the cone of a searchlight had replaced the darkness outside and flooded the small chamber with glaring brightness. A black silhouette then entered the hallway, thankfully blocking most of the harsh light. Aeren recognized Errake, who in turn noticed that his apprentice had woken. "We're leaving," he said. "Collect your gear."

There wasn't a part of Aeren's body that didn't hurt. Suppressing a groan of pain, he stood up and began packing what little equipment he had brought, soon numb from light and noise.

A few minutes later, the thunderhawk was carrying them back to the Rajais' palace, cutting through the now pitch black night and the cold rain. Aeren was eating the last of his field rations; after the utterly exhaustive ordeal in the previous hours he was hungry like seldom before. The rations didn't taste great. They were bland and chewy; but right now, he didn't care.

Opposite of him, Errake sat in his dark armor, slightly swaying with the craft's rocky movement, displaying his usual stony aloofness.

"Your anger is pointless," he said eventually.

Aeren wasn't really angry anymore, too drained to feel anything. But he didn't care to answer, instead contenting himself with tearing at his ration bar.

"I told you, if you'd decide to become a Space Marine, I'd hold you to it. I told you the training would be hard, and that is necessary. This galaxy doesn't tolerate weakness. If you aren't the absolute strongest you can be, it will chew you up and spit you out. So even if you hate me today, one day you will thank me for everything I'm putting you through." The giant pauldrons rose in a shrug. "And if not, you _are_ welcome to try and kill me."

Aeren still didn't answer.

* * *

It took them close to an hour to go back. When they exited the 'hawk via the lowered ramp, they were already expected by Endymion and a few other Astartes, all in full armor.

"About time! The Roach has already entered the atmosphere!"

"We're early enough. How do I look?" came Errake's deadpan answer.

"Shady," his lieutenant grinned.

"I don't know what I expected. All right! Clear the platform!"

The roar of the thunderhawk's engines intensified again, and the massive vehicle took off, turning the cold downpour into billowing fog. Meanwhile, Aeren and the others stepped into the long, high corridor leading from the platform to it's antechamber. At the entrance, they passed a stern looking older man with receding gray hair: that was Hyuri Ashok, recently appointed Master of Ceremony, after his predecessor had met with his inglorious end. He stiffly bowed to Errake. "Welcome back, my lord." Errake ignored him. Flanking the official were four servants, carrying a wide canopy; after all, it wouldn't do to have the Roach exposed to the rain even for the short amount of time it took her to reach the corridor's more permanent roof.

Inside the corridor itself, an honor guard lined both walls, clad in full dress uniform and armed with long rifles. Aeren eyed them suspiciously, half expecting an ambush; but Errake strode by without so much as looking at them. Finally arriving in the antechamber, they found the Rajai and some other dignitaries already assembled.

Myridna, who was uniformed as well, had grown even thinner in the last shifts, now bordering on haggard. Her husband didn't fare much better; neither looked very happy.

When Errake approached her, the regent inclined her head. "My lord."

"Raj." He then turned to the boy. "Aeren, I want you to watch this."

Aeren would have preferredf to go to sleep again, but at this point he was somewhat resigned. "Fine."

He took place between some of the nobles, who tried their best to inch away from his grim appearance.

And then they stood there, in frosty silence; Errake motionless, the Rajai carefully controlled.

They did not have to wait long though. While the noise of the thunderhawk was still growing more distant, it blended into and was replaced by a new one; doubtlessly another transport, but more high pitched and less powerful. Before long, the Roach's shuttle set down, filling the far rectangle of the corridor's opening. From what they could see, it was of slender build, sculpted like some exotic bird, and plated stern to prow in gold, glittering in the platform's light. As soon as it touched the rockcrete, Ashok and the canopy wearers hurried out to meet whatever was about to leave the craft.

The people back in the antechamber could see the shuttle's ramp being lowered, and a number of people exiting it, arrayed in what appeared to be an orderly formation. After Ashok and the person up front had exchanged bows and a few words, they began their journey through the hallway, and  
as they came closer, more and more details revealed themselves. Leading the group was small figure cloaked in a blue mantle and hood, followed by three women in plain gray dresses, their faces half-hidden behind veils of gauze. The rear of the group was formed by six guards in purple uniforms, carrying rifles and sabers at their hips.

When they reached the assembly, the person in front threw her hood back, and revealed herself to be a young woman, no older than thirty years. Her skin was bronze, her hair shining auburn; but her eyes where of a blue so radiant, they seemed to shine with a light of their own.

As was custom, the Master of Ceremony positioned himself between the two groups.

"May I present the Lady Regent, Raj Myridna Sulemnar, and her Lord Husband, Raj Agipor Sulemnar. And may I present to you, my ladies and lords, her exalted eminence, Mistress Tokunai of the Unbent Fellowship."

Myridna inclined her head once again and gave a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Welcome, Lady Tokunai."

The young woman replied with a smile of her own. "Sister." Her voice was soft and dulcet, yet at the same time surprisingly voluminous for one of such petite build. She closed in and hugged the other woman, laying her cheek against Myridna's. Reluctantly, the regent returned the embrace. Her smile seemed downright carved into her face now. After they separated, Tokunai offered Agipor the same courtesy; _his_ smile seemed more genuine, if a little pained. Finally the arrival turned to the lord of the Astartes, who stood on the side, opposite of Ashok.

Myridna indicated the massive figure. "And this is..."

"My lord Errake." Tokunai knelt before him, her bowed head almost touching the floor.

The giant looked down at her. "Rise."

And like that, introductions were done, and the regent turned to leave. "Now, if you'd join us below? Dinner has been prepared."

"It will be my pleasure," Tokunai beamed.

* * *

The feast wasn't held in the great hall; possibly because the hosts could do without the unsavory presence of Rahebat's severed head, that was still quietly rotting away there. Instead, they moved into another large room somewhere half up the mountain; only the northern wall was made up of large windows, against which the rain pleasantly pattered. The Astartes didn't participate, not caring for this kind of banquet and also being much to large to share a table with the humans. But for some reason he could not fathom, a place had been reserved for Aeren. Seeing how he was still hungry however, he didn't mind too much. As before, there were several courses. But the boy soon found himself utterly absorbed by the conversation, which was orchestrated by the Roach with experienced ease: the young woman had a way with words that was magnificent to behold, weaving wit and insight into a marvelous tapestry. That, in combination with her tremendous charisma made her the center of attention; the mood was relaxed, and Aeren noticed to his astonishment that even Myridna seemed to thaw a little. Somehow, Tokunai made the fact that she was about to become the ruler of Mahamat seem not so terrible to the old elite. Even Aeren found his spirit lifted in these hours.

* * *

Errake was sitting in his quarters and finalizing the plan for their departure, when he was roused from his considerations by the chime of the doorbell. "Enter."

The door opened, and on the other side stood Tokunai. "My lord, a moment of your time, if you please?"

The marine nodded, and the small woman entered his room. If she was at all cowed by his presence, she certainly didn't show it, instead exuding the same easy confidence as before. Following in her wake were four servants, carrying something that looked like a palanquin, although if it was one indeed, it couldn't offer transport for any but a very small person. They placed it in the middle of the room and turned to leave. Errake just watched, saying nothing.

Tokunai took place on a sofa that stood on one side of the room. "Before we begin, allow me to slip into something more comfortable."

"I hope there is a point to all this."

The young woman leaned back and closed her eyes. A wave ran through her body, and she put her head back; her eyes opened wide, and gagging noises emanated from her throat. She heaved, two, three times, and there was a sound like a long, deep exhale. Meanwhile, Errake felt a tingle in his stomach, the unpleasant tug of warpcraft on his soul. Then the woman's mouth snapped shut and she fell to the side, racked by violent coughing.

There was a movement in the drapes of the palanquin. A small hand covered in chitinous dark skin appeared in the gap, followed by an equally small shoe. With that, a tiny figure emerged from the transport. The Roach couldn't have been taller than a meter, and was wrapped in a cloak of dark, shimmering cloth, somewhat resembling the look of her skin.. The upper half of her face was hidden in the shadows of a large hood, pierced only by the soft blue glow of her eyes. She waddled over to where the young woman was slowly recovering from her fit, and gently patted her knee. "It is good, child. Go and rest now," she cooed. Her voice was strange, neither male nor female, and rattling, almost mechanical sounding. The woman rose. "Yes, mistress." Her voice had changed, having lost most of the tremendous presence she had previously displayed. She cast a furtive glance in Errake's direction before hastily leaving the room.

When the door closed behind her, Errake addressed the diminutive being. "So this is why they call you 'the Lending Roach'."

Tokunai gave a clacking chuckle. "Yes. Describes me fairly well, doesn't it?"

"Although you're small compared to an actual roach."

"True."

"So it's your warpcraft that allows you to bring worlds into the loving embrace of Chaos."

"It helps, yes. It allows me to make people more accepting towards me and any… suggestions I might bring forward. It is a subtle thing, and takes time, but the influence I again is all the stronger for it."

"Then I guess it's a good thing I won't be staying."

"I'm not so sure that you're susceptible to my particular charms. And aren't we on the same side anyway?"

"Of course." Errake made a short pause at this point. "Why are you here?"

"Firstly, I wanted to thank you. The dossier you sent me was quite comprehensive and helped a lot during my preparation for this mission."

"You're welcome."

"If you don't mind me saying, you seem to go about things differently than other Astartes. You seem more… composed."

"I take that as a compliment."

"For example, I was surprised you didn't dispose of the Rajai."

Errake shrugged. "Killing these two would only have made things more complicated. I find most humans are very cooperative when faced with the choice between death and an alliance."

"Hm. And I assume your imposing nature _would_ prevent people from going back on such agreements."

"Yes... was there anything else you wanted?"

"Indeed, forgive me." The Roach hobbled back to her palanquin, producing a datapad from its depth.

"I have been tasked to relay the Warmaster's new orders."

The pad left her hand and floated up to Errake, while the glow under the hood seemed to strengthen for a moment.

Errake grabbed the crackling pad. "Enough with the sorcery. I don't care for it."

Tokunai bowed. "As you wish."

The Astartes studied the document for a while. "I see."

"May I ask a question," the tiny figure inquired.

"Go ahead."

"Normally I wouldn't ask something like this, but as I said you don't strike me as the easily offended type."

"Unless one wastes my time."

"Of course. Why does the Warmaster use someone like me to relay his orders to you? It seems inappropriate."

"More like spiteful and contemptuous. Abaddon still holds a grudge for things that happened ages ago, and he has done everything to insult me ever since I entered into his service. I'm not sure what he hopes to achieve with that, though."

"Curious indeed. But perhaps there is no deeper meaning, and this is just the way he indulges in his power."

Errake's eyes bored into the two blue spheres glowing in the darkness of the hood. "Yes. Perhaps."

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Tokunai turned away. "So what are you going to do?"

"For now, I will continue to go where he wants me, and help him in his war."

"I take it you will leave shortly, then."

"Yes. My men are returning to my ship as we speak. We'll be gone in a few hours. I trust you'll be able to handle things by yourself."

"I'll be fine, especially once the rest of my children have landed."

"How large is this cult of yours anyway?"

"Some one hundred and eighty six thousand, give or take."

"And they are all loyal to you?"

"They'd give their lives in a heartbeat."

"Impressive."

They were quiet for a moment, before Errake spoke again. "If that is all, you may retreat."

The Roach bowed once more. "Of course, my lord. I wish you luck on your future endeavors, and perhaps we'll meet again someday."

"I doubt it."

There was a hint of a smile under the hood. "Who knows? The gods work in mysterious ways."

"That they do."

* * *

 **So, here is the second chapter. Not too much happens, as it is still a bridge from the prequel into the new plot. Still, it was another very difficult one, and I don't think it's all that great. I really haven't been inspired recently, although pink noise helps somewhat. Writing this story has been a real chore so far, and I think it shows. If this keeps up, I may abandon it altogether.**

 **Anyway, I want to thank** Kondoru **for the first review. I seem to be doing something right after all, and I wish you success with both your studies and your writing.**

* * *

 **Thank you for reading.**


	3. The Abyss Also Gazes Into You

3 – The Abyss Also Gazes Into You

The thunderhawk rose up, ever nearing its berth on the Deimos. Behind them, Mahamat grew smaller, abandoned and going into an uncertain future. Errake and Endymion were sitting in the cockpit. They were wearing their helmets, as the noise of the transport's engines would have drowned out any non-enhanced talk.

"So, how was training?" Endymion asked.

"Passable. The boy is still soft; he thinks I'm too hard on him, and that makes him angry."

"He is probably under a lot of stress due to the hormonal changes; he is going through an accelerated puberty after all, and an unnatural one at that. Still, I assume you explained to him why the training is the way it is."

"Yes. But you know how it is with emotional types."

"That I do." Errake was sure he heard Endymion smile under his mask.

"Either way, I realized the current situation isn't ideal."

"What do you mean?"

"Aeren trains alone. Usually, aspirants train in groups, if only to select the strongest of the bunch. The shared experience allows the forming of bonds, and instills a sense of cohesiveness… of camaraderie. Aeren doesn't have that. I assume that right now, he feels that no one can appreciate his situation. Those two girls you gave him certainly can't. It was an oversight to choose just him for evaluation. One that may prove detrimental."

"An 'oversight'? I don't think I've ever hear you admit to one of those."

"We don't know each other that long yet."

" _Thirty years_."

"Yes, as I said: not that long."

Endymion shook his head and chuckled. Then he became serious again. "I see your point, but considering we only had one gene-seed available, having more aspirants would at best postpone the situation. With each new implant, he'd be further removed from them. But I admit, they might've alleviated his loneliness." He reclined against the cabin wall, and fell silent for a moment.

"There is, however, another aspect to this whole affair."

Errake waited patiently for him to continue.

"I don't think it's actually the training that's getting to him. My guess is that _you_ are not appreciating him enough, either. This ties into what you said about camaraderie; you can pile exercise after exercise on him, but if you don't praise for what he does, he'll stop seeing the point, and he will see _you_ as an aggressor rather than an ally. No wonder he is frustrated. On the other hand, if you _do_ praise him, not only will he be more happy, but he will also be thankful to you and grow more loyal in return. You know that he grew up without his parents; if you handle this well, you could install yourself as a surrogate father..."

"You misunderstand my intentions. Making him become attached to me is the last thing I want. I want him to be independent."

"That may be impossible. For good or ill, you _are_ the person he spends the most time with; and because of that, he probably already has a developed some kind of bond with you – even though it may be one-sided, and even though it's nature may be less than… positive."

Errake nodded slowly. "You may be right. This needs to be dealt with, and fast." He grabbed the datapad he'd brought along, and handed it to his lieutenant. "With any luck, he'll meet other neophytes on our next assignment. The Roach brought our new orders."

"The _Roach_ did that? Seven hells, what is Abaddon thinking?"

"I have no idea. Anyway, we'll be meeting up with a detachment of Iron Warriors, and there could be some Aspirants among them."

"And you think they'd be forthcoming? I have my doubts."

"One way or the other, it would be a useful experience to come in contact with his equals. And to fight with them."

Endymion tapped his cheek, a gesture of contemplation. "Aren't you worried they might turn him to Chaos?"

"That he could fall to Chaos is always a possibility. But yes, he will need some preparation so he knows know what's coming to him. In fact, I've already thought about an object lesson..."

When the ramp opened to the familiar shuttle bay, Aeren realized for the first time how long he had actually been gone, over a month now. As he walked to the exit, everything that had happened came rushing back to him: their charade and time as the Rajais' guests, the Duskale inferno, the subjugation of the noble houses. All these memories only added to his exhaustion, and he just wanted to go and sleep forever.

When he reached his room, he was slightly disappointed to not find the girls there. He saw that a few new items had found their way in: various pieces of clothing, orderly stacked at one of the walls, and some other bits and bobs. Not bothering to undress, he dropped his backpack and, after removing the bulky external part of his bionic eye, fell across the bed. The familiar smell of the girls filled his nose, and he smiled. _Smells like home,_ he thought. _Or what passes for it these days._ Then, he fell asleep.

The feeling of being gently shaken woke him up. With some difficulty he forced his eye open, and the blurry brightness solidified into Jessyca's face. "Hey there, scratchface," she said with a smile. "Welcome back."

"Hey," Aeren managed to say, smiling as well. "How long did I sleep?"

"Depends. When did you go to bed? It's now eighteen hundred." Two hours. Way to little in Aeren's opinion.

"Is the little one here as well?"

"Of course." Jessyca turned and mentioned to Ada, standing behind her. The little girl came closer, clutching a ragdoll. She snuggled up to Jessyca and smiled shyly.

Aeren gently took her little hand. "I missed you guys."

"Yeah, we missed you too."

"Where were you when I came in?"

"At work. Magos Wernte keeps us well busy; this _is_ a large ship, you know."

"Ah, okay."

Shortly after Aeren had left the Apothecarium to continue his training, Jessyca had grown antsy, not having all that much to do. Endymion had noticed that and, after learning that she was a metal worker and mechanic, had suggested to apply for work with the resident keeper of machines, Magos Clucius Wernte, a was a two and a half meter tall being in a leather apron. At first he hadn't even taken notice of her, and his acolytes had explained that the Magos was utterly absorbed by the care for his machines, and would disregard organics most of the time. That seemed plausible, as the man, if indeed man he was, did not seem to have much of his former human shell left on him. His face was a bare metal plate covering whatever was left of his skull, dominated by a single round eye on it's right side.  
While the Magos had paid her no mind, his servants had been eager to welcome a new member among them, and eventually, their master had taken note of her as well.

"So, how was... the mission?" Jessyca asked, her face turning serious.

Aeren exhaled, the memories assaulting him once more in a storm of impressions.

"It was insane. I don't even know how to begin describing everything that happened."

"Well, it's usually a good idea to begin at the beginning," she offered with a slight smile.

"Right. So we got on the transport and flew down to the planet..."

Aeren told her the story, and she listened attentively, occasionally asking questions. The boy went to great lengths describing enthusiastically what he had learned about Mahamat and its people. When he closed in on the Duskale festival, his mood started to darken.

"I don't remember what went through my head when the signal came, it all happened very quickly. We tried to take the Rajai hostage, but as it turned out, they had expected something like this. There were snipers on two nearby buildings that killed our soldiers; they would have killed Cortez and me too, but Cortez was equipped with a conversion field, and I was in cover at the time. Cortez was still knocked out though, and that left only me able to fight."

"So what did you do?" Jessyca said, watching him intently.

"I called in an orbital strike."

"Like in the newsreels?"

"Yeah, except they aren't like that in reality, not when you're on the ground right next to one. I thought I was going blind and deaf at the same time, so loud and bright was it. The two buildings with the snipers were destroyed, and everyone still on their feed was _then_ knocked out. I wasn't though, and that allowed me to bring the situation under control."

Jessyca nodded and bit her lower lip. "How?"

Aeren really didn't want to talk about that. "Well, I neutralized the Rajais' guards, and that allowed us to leave with the regents."

"Neutralized?"

He felt a surge of annoyance at her digging. "Yeah, I killed them, if you must know."

"I was just asking, no need to get angry."

"We knew it would come to that, sooner or later!" Already anger threatened to engulf him again.

"I _said_ I was just asking. Sheesh. Touchy subject."

"Yeah, you would know about those."

Now it was Jessyca's turn to get angry. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" she flared at him, standing up from the bed.

"With me? Why are you asking questions you already know the answers to?! You want me to say I killed them? There, I did it!" He fell silent, anger draining from him as quickly as it had risen, replaced by guilt burrowing through his intestines. "I did it."

"Yeah, you can be mighty proud of yourself," Jessyca said, her voice dripping with venom. "And I bet your 'master' is mighty proud as well."

"I'M NOT PROUD! FUCK YOU, I'M NOT PROUD! I FEEL GUILTY! GUILTY! OKAY? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANNA HEAR?" He buried his face in his hands, as the emotions once more overwhelmed him, and broke out in a torrent of hot tears accompanied by wails of anguish.

Jessyca glowered down at him for a few seconds. There were many things she wanted to tell him then: that his misery was self inflicted, that he had chosen to do this. That he deserved to suffer for killing servants of the Imperium in the name of a heretical cause. That she hated him for turning his back on the Emperor.

But in the end, what held her back was the constant and utterly clear awareness that she needed him; she and Ada both. Without him, they'd be even more lost out here, left to fight for themselves on a ship full of heretics.

So she sat back down on the bed and forced herself to hug him.

She shook her head. "I can't help you with that." And, as an afterthought: "I am your friend, Aeren, but this pain is…" _your punishment_ "… yours alone."

His crying had subsided, simmered down to quiet sobbing. He didn't answer.

So she sat back down and put her arms around him. They sat like that for a few minutes.

Eventually, Aeren raised his head. "What am I doing?" he said. "What am I doing."

"I don't know," she said.

* * *

After that, Aeren had gone back to sleep. He woke only when Errake called to him with his rumbling voice. The boy sat up, rubbing his eyes. Jessyca and Ada were gone once more. "What is it?" he said, rubbing his eyes.

"Training. Bring your weapons," answered the Astartes.

The boy sighed. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

* * *

They made their way through the ship, but soon Aeren realized they weren't going to the gym; nor to the shooting range or any other of the usual places.

"Where are we going?"

"Something different today. We've spoken about the warp before, and you will soon come very close to it. You need to prepare yourself."

"Prepare… myself?"

"You'll see."

Eventually, they came to a dark and quiet corner of the ship. Set inside a small storage area was a dark, massive cube, about eight meters on each side, and built from thick steel. In the wall facing them was a heavy door. A few pipes rose from its top and disappeared in a tangle of tubing at the chamber's ceiling. Aeren noticed that the floor they stood on was was actually formed from two halves, meeting at a line running straight through the center, and framed by yellow and black warning stripes: the inner doors of a tremendous airlock. He looked at Errake interrogatively.

"What you'll find in there, I cannot say," the old Marine offered. "But should you fail, I will space the containment unit and you along with it."

Aeren swallowed, gripping the handle of his gun more tightly. "Okay..?" _At least with him you always know where you stand._

Without another word, the marine turned the large lever on the door; Aeren heard the sound of massive bars sliding into the walls, unlocking the thing. The door swung out noiselessly, and Aeren saw that the walls of the Cube were almost half a meter thick. A hint of fear took possession of him. Slowly, he walked closer. As he neared the black rectangle of the door, a murderous stench hit him: a sickening mixture of sweat, urine and feces. He gagged and pulled the hem of his shirt over his nose; not that it helped much. Switching on the light that was attached to the underside of his rifle, he stepped into the darkness.

* * *

At first, he didn't see much, his eyes having yet to adjust to the stark contrast between light and dark. Then, he noticed a movement on the far side of the cube, accompanied by a gentle, metallic chink. Heavy chains became visible in the gray noise. They were attached to the wall, and bound to them was something lying on the floor…

It was a person. It was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman, as the figure was emaciated to the point were it seemed to be composed solely of skin and bones. Only a few strands of long, dark hair remained its skull-like head, the rest having long since fallen out. The creature righted itself, and rose a spindly hand to shield its eyes against the brightness of his lamp.

Aeren looked back, not sure what to make of this, but Errake wasn't to be seen.

"Who are you? What do you want?" came the skeletal creature's voice, raspy and strained. It seemed to have a female note to it, and to his surprise Aeren found it to be strangely familiar, although he couldn't say why; only that it stirred something unpleasant in him.

"My name is Aeren Mallory."

"Ah. I remember you. The boy in the pit."

Aeren frowned. He still couldn't put his finger on why he seemed to know this voice, but his unease increased.

"You saw me fighting?"

"Saw you?" There was a dry chuckle. "Don't you remember me? I guess I must have looked a little different then."

It took Aeren another second; then it hit him. " _Cordeau_?" The memories, long avoided, slapped him like a bucket of cold water. An image flashed before his eyes: the woman fighter, terribly changed by some sinister and otherworldly power, lunging at him with her black claws. He recoiled. "FUCKING HELL!"

But the haggard woman didn't move, instead offering another taste of that awful, arid chuckle.

"You have nothing to fear from me, the… chains will see to that."

Indeed, the chains _did_ look ridiculously oversized on her wasted frame; but Aeren was nonetheless gripped by a shadow of the fear he had felt back in those moments. Cold sweat formed on his brow.

"You're _alive_?" he gasped.

"More or less. Time, and your masters, haven't been kind to me."

Aeren was rooted to the spot. His heart was pounding in his chest; his gun, pointed at the half-dead woman, was shaking in his hand. He was struggling for words, as many conflicting emotions assaulted him, fighting for dominance over his soul; but in this moment, fear trumped everything else.

Yet at the same time, there was a thought somewhere in the back of his head, an abstract realization stretching out its tendrils and fighting on behalf of his rationality: Errake had sent him here for a reason. Something was to be gained from this confrontation, something to be _learned;_ and those chains looked very sturdy indeed.

"I heard what happened to you," he said finally, trying to steady his voice. "You have become _possessed_."

"Is that what your master said? Guess even the fucking Astartes don't know everything." There was a tinge of scorn in her voice.

"So what, are you saying that wasn't a fucking _daemon_ back then?! Bullshit!" The part of his brain that was still functioning realized he was sounding a bit hysteric.

"What you saw _was_ the power of the Warp alright. But I wasn't possessed; I made a pact. I was _chosen._ " This time, her words sounded almost proud.

"Chosen? For what?"

"To become a vessel for _power._ "

Aeren thought about what he had learned about the Warp, and into his fear crept a different note, one of disdain for the foolish woman. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

"And what do you know?!" she snarled at him. A gust of cold air seemed to waft by, and he stepped back again, a new spike of adrenaline jolting through him.

"You have it easy; the darling of an Astartes, and on the way to become one yourself. Not all of us are so lucky; we are just meat for the meat grinder. So when I was offered that power, you bet your shriveled little balls I took it. And I'll tell you something else: Astartes are _shit_ compared to the Neverborn. I hope you'll meet them one day, so they can rip the rest of your fucking face off!"

Aeren ground his teeth. This wreck, this _thing_ knew nothing of what he was going through. And he was now, for the first time in this conversation, remembering what this woman had done to him; what she had _taken_ from him. He pointed the gun at her head.

"I am _really_ tempted to kill you right now. I'm sure Errake wouldn't mind."

" _Ooh_ , and you might actually _succeed_ this time." Her voice was pure scorn now. "I mean, I'm just a starving woman chained to a wall, and you're _such_ a strong boy with a gun. So _brave._ " She started to laugh, or tried to anyway: the exertion racked her weakened body and she gasped for air. " _So brave_ ," she repeated.

Aeren saw red. With a scream, he lunged forward, rising the butt of his rifle high above his head; Cordeau answered with an inhuman hiss. But the rage had driven the fear out of him, and his weapon came down and connected; he felt something give. The woman screeched, an ear piercing noise that only fueled his fury further. Once again, he couldn't make out much, as his light was now pointing away from his victim. Not that he cared. He raised his weapon once more. But before he could strike again, He felt a sharp pain on his abdomen, the searing kiss of claws tearing through him. But his blind rage and the adrenaline kept him going. With mad strength, he brought his weapon down again; the screeching stopped. Aeren didn't relent. Again and again he struck. The hard _thud thud thud_ turned into a wet squish.

* * *

He didn't know how long he beat the lifeless mass before him. He only stopped when his arms became so sore that he could barely lift them anymore. He pointed his flashlight at the bloody ruin that his assault had left. Little remained of Cordeau's head, its constituents having been turned into a shapeless pat of detritus. He took the picture in dispassionately, having once again exhausted his emotional capacity. Then he felt something drip down his leg, and he turned the light on himself. His shirt and pants had been shredded and their remains were soaked with blood. And that was when the pain came. " _Fuuuuuuck_ ," he groaned. It was impossible to tell where his blood ended and where that of his enemy began. Cautiously, he stroked his left hand over the garbled mess. It came away glistening with red. _I need to get this treated_ , he thought and turned around. A lance of pain stabbed him. " _FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!_ " he screamed.

Tears of anguish streaking down his cheeks, he hobbled out of the chamber, glad to return into light and somewhat fresher air. Outside, Errake waited for him. He didn't seem to have moved at all. "Go to the Apothecarium," the giant rumbled. "Sabato is waiting for you."

"Yeah, sure," Aeren answered. A grin spread over his face; Errake's matter-of-fact attitude in the face of this scene was just too absurd. A mad giggle climbed up his throat and bubbled out of his mouth. More of that followed, and before he knew, he was laughing, and crying and screaming because the pain ripped at him. Slowly, he dragged himself to the infirmary, leaving a trail of blood behind.

* * *

 **AN: Well, this wasn't bleak at all!**

 **So I have been chipping away at this chapter for weeks, and it isn't really getting better. And now I'm sick of looking at it, so here it is.**

 **A problem I see with this story as a whole is that I have currently no idea how to bring some hope or happiness into it. Also I don't think any of my characters are particularly likable at this point. We'll have to see whether it remains engaging nonetheless.**

 **I really need to make sure that I don't write Aeren to close to myself. I am especially concerned about his breakdown of guilt with Jessyca. I toyed with the thought of toning it down, but in the end I didn't feel like it. Do you think it's too much, or out of character for Aeren? Let me know what you think.**

Kondoru **: Haha, thanks! Reading your review made me realize that the Roach looks like a Jawa, although I didn't intend that. All the more ironic considering I recently binged Clone Wars. Funny how these things sometimes work. And no, she isn't a genestealer – those belong to the 'Nids, don't they? They wouldn't work for Chaos. She is a mutant.**

* * *

 **Thanks for reading.**


	4. The Familiarity of Pain

4 – The Familiarity of Pain

Aeren felt cold and dizzy. His wounds, covering his abdomen and crotch, were still bleeding, pumping out his life juice with every tandem heartbeat. Leaning against the wall, he dragged himself forward. Finally, the door to the Apothecarium came into view. He stumbled, and caught himself in time before falling down; he knew, if he fell, he would never get up again. _Step. Step. Step. Drip. Drip. Drip._

He reached the door, which unfortunately was on the _other_ side of the corridor. _Here goes nothing_ , he thought, and pushed himself away from the wall. He tried to stop his stumble with his arms, but his strength failed him and he slammed face first into the metal. Flailing with his left hand, he found the handle and managed to push it down. The door swung open, and this time he _did_ fall. He saw bright, colorful flashes, both from the blood loss and acquainting his face with the floor. His senses were fading. Before he passed out, he heard Sabato's voice: "I think this is enough." Then he was picked up.

* * *

When he woke up, the pain was there. But even in this state he realized that, as bad as it was, it hardly compared to the time when Sabato had implanted him with the first phase of the gene-seed. _Gotta be glad for the small things I guess_. He breathed slowly and deeply in an attempt to alleviate the clamor in his mid region. It helped a little. Then he looked around. "Hello, someone here?" He heard heavy steps, and Sabato appeared from somewhere out of sight. "Two questions," Aeren began before the Marine had the chance to say anything. "How long was I out? And how bad is it this time?"

"You were unconscious for two days. It was close, very close. You almost bled out. Luckily, we have large supplies of spare blood. Once I hooked you up, you stabilized very quickly. As for permanent damage, I had to remove your right testicle and your penis was shredded. You won't lose it this time, but it also won't be the shape you remember." The Astartes shrugged. "Nothing that will incapacitate you for long."

"Gee, thanks. I feel _so_ much better now." Truth was, losing parts of his genitalia didn't shock him anywhere nearly as much as he would have thought. Sabato was right, he hadn't lost anything of value; it wasn't like he was going to need his member for anything else than relieving himself. But there was something else; for some reason, he felt strangely disconnected from the whole experience. It almost felt like this injury was just another natural addendum to the path he was on.

"You're welcome. You should be able to walk in about a week."

"Better than two weeks, I guess."

"Undoubtedly. Oh yeah, Endymion will come by shortly. He said he wanted to talk to you as soon as you wake up."

"Sure, why not."

Indeed, Endymion showed up only a few minutes later. He dragged one of the large chairs next to Aeren's bed and sat down. "How do you feel?"

The boy shrugged. "All things considered, not too bad."

"You're getting used to the pain, aren't you."

Another shrug. "I guess."

Endymion watched him for a short moment. "I'm interested in your emotional state. Errake says you've grown angry lately, and this episode seems to support that."

"I don't really feel like talking about about it."

"Okay, how about I tell you what I think and you just tell me if I'm on the mark."

"Do what you want."

"Always." Endymion smiled. "So. Let us begin with the obvious. You're hurting, and I'm not talking about losing a piece of your cock. Your recent anger is testament to that. Where does it come from? I believe there are quite a lot of reasons for you to be frustrated right now. Becoming an Astartes isn't all that it's cracked up to be, and you've now come face to face with the fact that you'll have to do things that don't sit right with you. You're wondering if your goals are worth all of this dirty work. Perhaps you're even wondering whether your goals are achievable in the first place. As your knowledge and understanding of the world grow, these ambitions of yours must seem more and more like a childish fantasy. Correct so far?"

Aeren said nothing.

"Very well, let's continue then. In addition to the previous things, you have now officially betrayed the Imperium, and although you loathe the institution, you still feel guilty about killing imperial citizens; after all, they are the ones you wanted to protect in the first place. You still consider them your true allies. And to top it all off, you feel that Errake hasn't given you enough appreciation; especially for the progress you make in your training."

He let that sink in for a moment. "To summarize: you feel lost. You don't know what your place is in the world, or if there even _is_ a place for you. You're asking yourself, 'what is even the point?'. And all this guilt and frustration transform into anger."

There was another pause. Aeren had to admit that Endymion was pretty close to the truth, and he felt that being understood took a lot of the pressure away. "How do you know all of this?"

Endymion smiled again. "I have studied the human psyche for a long time, and believe it or not, you're not the first person to live through these troubles. All generations are plagued by them to varying degrees, and probably have been so since the dawn of time."

Aeren nodded sadly. "It's true, all of it. Perhaps I'm not cut out to be an Astartes after all."

"You are mistaken if you believe that Astartes aren't affected by these kinds of things. Sometimes you can see a glimpse of them even in the oldest ones, the ones who lived through the heresy. I believe many were consumed by their issues, and it drove them further into the arms of Chaos. They'd do anything to dull their pain."

Aeren frowned skeptically. "I always thought Astartes were above these troubles."

"Like we're above love?" Once again, a smile was on the Astartes' face. "Remember: not even the Primarchs were immune to the ailments of the soul. Hence the Heresy."

Aeren pondered this for a while. "And what can I do? How do people overcome these problems?"

"Ahh, now there is the problem." Endymion stretched. "In the end, only you yourself can find your purpose. The servants of the Emperor and the servants of the Dark Gods have it easier in this regard; their paths are, for the most part, laid before them. You, on the other hand, are very much free; indeed, you may be one of the freest beings to walk this galaxy, and cannot rely on a master or a cause to guide you. Errake has bestowed upon you a terrible gift." He winked.

"But, if you cannot see your own destiny right now, do not despair; you are still very young, and will have plenty of time to find your own way. That is, if you continue to survive." His lips curled into a smirk; Aeren huffed.

"For the time being, you can be content to follow Errake's tutelage. You may not realize it, but you could do a lot worse in terms of a teacher. And don't be fooled, he _does_ care about you, in his own way."

"Great." Aeren frowned. "So basically, nothing changes. But how does that help with my guilt?"

"You feel guilty because you have an idealized perception of the servants of the Imperium. You have never seen them through the eyes of an enemy, never met them on a battlefield. But you will." For once, Endymion had dropped his permanent joviality, instead becoming serious. "And when you do, this illusion will shatter, and the hate will come more easily to you."

Endymion's words hung in the air, heavy with premonition.

"Well, that should be enough for the moment." The Astartes rose, his face once again mirthful, as if they had discussed nothing of consequence. "Rest, while you can. I'm sure the old man will send for you soon."

"I can't wait."

And like that, Endymion vanished, leaving only the jingling of little bells behind.

* * *

Later, he was once again summoned to Errake's study. He slowly lowered himself into the large chair before the great Nalwood desk, supporting himself on both armrests to minimize the stress on his wounds; he could not do it without grimacing though. The old one watched him.

"Well? Here I am."

Errake continued to stare at him for a few more seconds. "How would you assess your encounter with Cordeau?" he finally asked.

 _Hello to you too._ "Well, I killed her, didn't I? I thought you'd appreciate that."

"Yes, you killed her. And made a mess of yourself in the process." It was a matter-of-fact statement; there was no accusation or anger in Errake's voice.

Aeren didn't know what to say. "I.. I..," he stammered.

"You were angry."

"You fucking bet I was angry. I don't think I need to remind you what that bitch did to me." Aeren tapped against the casing of his left eye, just in case Errake _did_ need a reminder.

"So you took revenge and almost got killed."

"Look, I know what you're saying: I gave in to my emotions and paid a terrible price for it. Sound about right?"

"Yes."

Again, Aeren was at a loss for words. Errake was of course right, in a way, and yet the boy felt he deserved to be angry.

"Your anger is concerning," Errake continued. "You know about Chaos, about the Dark Gods. Strong emotions are like beacons to them, especially if they belong to Astartes. You're no Space Marine yet, but your power will only grow, and in time you will become a welcome a worthwhile price for them – if you continue to let your emotions run free. Your anger in particular will draw the attention of Khorne." He leaned back. "I think I have made it abundantly clear that I am no friend to the Ruinous Powers. I will do everything to prevent you from falling into their hands."

"Oh, that's great!" Aeren exclaimed sarcastically. "You seem to have planned my future through already! Good thing to know that what I want isn't important!"

"What are you saying? Do you _want_ to become their slave?"

Aeren defiantly pushed his chin out. "Perhaps? And what would you do then?"

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Oh, of course not. After all, I'm just a dumb kid. What do I know? After all, I'm not Errake, the great and terrible."

Errake said nothing for a moment. "You have yet a long way ahead of you," he eventually offered. "But should you, in the end, desire to become a champion of the Dark Gods, I will not stop you."

Aeren was stunned. _This_ he hadn't expected.

"I once told you," the old one continued, "that I was going to make you a sovereign; that you would become the master of your own fate. I stand by that. If _that_ is the path you want to choose, then so be it."

The boy slumped in the chair, his anger once more defeated. "To be honest, I don't even know what I want." He took a few heavy breaths. "When my training began, I wanted to become a Space Marine to free the people of the Imperium. But that seems like a ridiculous idea now. I wanted to protect Jessyca and Ada, but I guess they hate me now; or Jessy seems to, anyway. Who knows what the little one thinks." He sighed. "And I'm probably too weak to be an Astartes anyway. So yeah, I don't really know what to do."

Errake looked him in the eyes for what seemed like minutes. "In time, you will find your way in the world."

"Yeah, Endymion said something similar. That only I could find my purpose." He shook his head. "But, for an Astartes, what can there be other than fighting?"

"Fighting is inevitable. Eventually, the lust for battle will grow in you as well, whether you want it or not; it _is_ a part of our nature. However, our being is always twofold. When we were created, that other part of our core was our devotion to the Emperor. When the Heresy came, we tore that part out, and it left a great emptiness. The biggest challenge for us is to fill that void, to make ourselves whole again. You will have to do this as well."

As the boy pondered this, a new thought came to him. "Did _you_ make yourself whole again?"

Errake nodded. "Yes, a long time ago."

"How? What did you do?"

Errake looked at him for a few seconds. "I will show you."

He pressed a rune on the table. "Captain LeMarr?"

" _Yes my lord_."

"Have the navigator plot a new course. We're taking a detour."

" _Whereto, my lord_?"

"Loewe six eight seven."

" _At once, my lord._ "

The comm fell silent. "What is at Loewe six eight seven?" Aeren asked.

"Lessons," Errake answered ominously.

* * *

Aeren's wounds healed quickly, as Sabato had promised. As he was still unable to pick up physical training again, he contented himself with his books. The mood between him and Jessyca remained somewhat grave, although they didn't fight again, instead treating each other with cool politeness. Ada, at least, seemed unconcerned by the frosty atmosphere, and didn't treat Aeren any different. He was quietly thankful for that, although he wondered what was going on with her, and how much of what was going on around her she actually perceived.

One day, when he was taking apart his hellgun for the umpteenth time, she sat opposite of him on the large bed, watching him intently. Following a sudden whim, he offered the part he was holding; it was the lens assembly.

"Wanna try?"

She barely hesitated before taking the piece and, after studying it for a short moment, beginning to assemble the gun with fluid, steady movements.

"Here, that one's a little tricky-" Ada, not phased in the slightest, locked the final piece in place, slightly baffling Aeren in the process.

"What do you know, there is something going on in that head of yours after all." He still had no idea if she understood him, but her smile was happy enough.

Aeren had another idea. "Wanna shoot it?" Her eyes lit up. "I take that as a yes," Aeren said smiling.


	5. History

5 - History

The world tore open and the warp spilled into physical reality, ethereal tendrils groping about, feeling for something to hold on to, or, failing that, something to pull back, some hapless victim, a price to claim before they would be confined to their own hellish dimension once more. In the center of this blasphemous wound appeared the Deimos, a dark shard of material persistence against a backdrop of an ever changing, mindless Moloch. With some effort, it tore away from the grasping, howling energies, that could not seem to get a hold of its dull gray shape. Shortly after the ship had disentangled itself from the churning abyss, exchanging the maddening sea of the Warp with the solemn darkness of the Materium, the cacophonous riot of color collapsed on itself, leaving no tangible trace of its violation of a saner universe; for now, order was restored to the system that was known to imperial cartographers as Loewe six eight seven.

Located a ways off of the major routes, and devoid of any significant number of resources, none of the factions present in this part of the galaxy had ever laid claim to it, or even cared to establish a permanent presence. It featured two small, rocky worlds close to its dying star as well as three gas giants and an ice giant in the far reaches. And, of course, a thin asteroid belt somewhere in the middle. _This_ was were the Deimos was headed.

* * *

Once again, Aeren stood in the small bath and looked at the stranger in the mirror. Another day, another sight. The latest addition being of course the angry red stripes covering his lower abdomen and upper thighs. And of course his penis, which now looked decidedly crooked and the tip of which was pointing somewhat to the left. The stitches hadn't been removed yet, but the fact that he was no longer required to wear a catheter was a small relief. The fact that he was also missing his right testicle was almost reduced to an afterthought in the face of these changes.

But this new set of scars was only the icing on a whole cake of transformations. He was taller, and more muscular, than any thirteen year old he had ever known. It hadn't taken him long after his return to the ship to realize that he was now as tall as Jessyca, a fact that instilled him with a certain petty satisfaction.

And yet, with every passing day, he grew more detached from his body, despite the awareness exercises Errake had him perform.

"Who are you?" he asked the stranger. The mirror had no answer for him, instead looking at him with a slight frown. Slowly, he raised his left hand to cover the dark hole of his empty eye socket. The view didn't become any more familiar. And so the boy let his hand sink back to his side and continued to stare at himself, unthinking.

He didn't know how long he had stood there, naked, while the remains of his shower evaporated off of him. Only when the ship began to shake and rattle around him did he find his way back. The lurching metal and the subtle tugging in his innards told him that they were leaving the warp.

"Right. On to new adventures." He grabbed a towel and moved it over his skin, despite being already dry. After that, he replaced his bionic eye and donned his new gray combat fatigues; he had outgrown his Guard uniform. Shortly after, the intercom chimed. " _We've arrived, Aeren. Shuttle bay one._ " Pressing a rune, the boy leaned in to answer. "On my way."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were on their way. Aeren was sitting in the cockpit next to Errake; the old man was flying himself, all the while explaining the various dials, switches and levers. The boy listened to the deliberations attentively, creating a mental map of the cockpit with labels for each device.

Eventually, Errake fell silent, and for a moment, they sat quietly, the drone of the engines vaguely audible through their headsets.

In the center of the dimmed forward window was Loewe six eight seven, small and seemingly infinitely far away. A short glance to the holomap revealed the precise distance: some three hundred million kilometers.

Aeren had since learned what a million was, not that it helped much; in truth, the scale of star systems and indeed the galaxy defied human imagination, and made Aeren feel even smaller and more unimportant.

"Where are we going?" he asked with only a hint of impatience in his voice. "There is nothing out here."

"You are mistaken." Errake pointed to an area on the window. Aeren looked, but even squinting revealed nothing; then he noticed a silhouette, specks of reflected sunlight against the dark void. It grew rapidly as he watched. "What is that?" he asked, still not sure what he was seeing.

"I call this place 'V4', and I don't know that it has any other name."

"Why 'V4'?"

"The 'V' stands for 'vault', and '4' because it is the fourth in a row of similar places I have laid out over the years."

"A vault? For what?"

"Patience. You will see soon enough."

V4 turned out to be an asteroid, roughly spherical in shape, and with a diameter of about eight hundred meters. When they left its shadow, coming around the side, Aeren saw a large airlock with docking clamps next to it, into which Errake guided their shuttle with sleepwalking precision. The clamps engaged, and with a short jolt, the shuttle came to rest.

"Whoa."As Aeren removed the safety harness and tried to stand up, he began to float, almost hitting his head at the cockpit ceiling.

"Forgotten your zero-g training already?"

"Meh." He moved to a nearby handrail and used it to navigate towards the airlock; Errake meanwhile relied on his magnetized boots.

"The asteroid has gravity. This side." Errake pointed to one side of the downward leading tube in the floor of the shuttle. It was a weird sensation, how the wall became the floor.

Beyond the airlock was a short, circular corridor leading to a massive door. Before it, they stopped.

"Now what?" Aeren asked.

Before Errake could answer, a new, unfamiliar voice filled the air around them; loud and mournful, and distorted by static.

" _WHO GOES_ _THERE? SHALL I NOT, EVEN IN THIS HERMITAGE, FIND RECOURSE FROM YOUR TORMENTING VOICES?"_

"'Tis I, _"_ Errake answered, "fair Prudence, whom you once held with lover's passion, ere you sought the embrace of vapid Piety."

For a few seconds, silence descended on them again; then, the heavy door set into motion, making the whole corridor vibrate in the process.

As they stepped through the opening, Aeren saw that the door was at least half a meter thick, hanging on enormous, piston-driven hinges.

Behind the door was another corridor, perpendicular to the first. To either side were further round portals; but ahead there was a rectangular gate with the sigil of the Mechanicum on it. From somewhere deep below, Aeren could hear the low throb of heavy machinery.

Before he could fully take in what he was seeing, there was another voice; although it was equally as distorted as the first, this one was more youthful and jovial. " _I BID_ _YE_ _WELCOME, NOBLE_ _LORDS! HARK, HOW_ _THE_ _TRUMPETS_ _RING! A FEAST! A FEAST!"_

"What's all this about?" Aeren asked frowning. "Who are these people?"

"Not 'people'. One person. His name is Ohm; he maintains this place."

Errake walked to the door in front of them; it opened, revealing an elevator cage.

Reluctantly, Aeren stepped in behind the Astartes. "So what's with the voices? And the weird talk?"

"Quotes from an obscure, six hundred year old play that Ohm is fond of: ' _The Pillars Of Virtue_ '. It tells of a shepherd and his quest for enlightenment. Along the way, he goes astray many times; and he meets many people, such as a group of talking stones and the daemons Courage, Pity and Luck."

Aeren looked at him, flabbergasted.

"It is rather abstract, and loses some of its appeal in the Gothic translation, or so I'm told."

The elevator continued its journey down.

" _Ahleelee! Come, sweet death! Carry me forth from_ _twilight and ash!"_ came another voice from the speakers.

* * *

The doors opened on the other side of the cage and gave view to a dimly lit machine landscape, stretching far away into the depths of the asteroid. The noise was louder down here, but not to an unpleasant degree.

Straight ahead was a pillar of sorts, pipes and wiring curling around it and radiating out in many directions. When they approached, Aeren realized that at the center of this metallic spiderweb, there was an alcove, and, standing in it, a vaguely human shape. It was clad in the red robe of a tech priest, and fused to the surrounding machinery through many wires and pipes. A host of traces converged around the figure's shadowed hood, and Aeren found himself reminded of the halos on imperial icons, although this one was formed from plastic and copper. A moment later, any doubts remaining as to the nature of the thing were cleared out, when he realized that one of the protrusions was nothing less than a severely atrophied human arm, ossified into a lifeless stick, long, splintered nails still sitting on the tips of the desiccated fingers.

" _Omnissiah's blessing on you, my lords._ " The voice seemed to come from all around them. It was yet another one, and Aeren presumed that it was the owner's own.

"Well met, master Ohm," Errake answered. "How are things here?"

" _As well as ever; my children are healthy and lively. And how is it out there? Still traveling the galaxy, looking for the ultimate challenger?"_

"Always."

" _And who are you, young one? Errake's never brought anyone with him before."_

 _Is that so,_ Aeren thought. "I'm his apprentice."

" _Hoho. Feeling the years, are we Errake? Is that why you brought him here? To show him his heritage?"_

"You know my kind doesn't retire."

" _Indeed not. But even you cannot outrun the reaper forever. It would be a shame, if all those riches were to go to waste, would it not?"_

"That isn't reason we're here. I want to show the boy some pieces of my collection. Hopefully he will learn something from it."

" _Hm, well well."_

For a few seconds, only the labor of the machines could be heard.

" _Well now, young apprentice, when you go up there in a minute, insist that he lends you his copy of 'The Pillars Of Virtue_ '."

"I, uh, have heard the Gothic version doesn't really live up to the original."

" _All to true, I fear. But of course one hasn't_ truly _experienced the 'Pillars' until one has seen them performed in a traditional manner. Ah, I still remember it like it was yesterday. It went on for twenty seven hours without breaks. People would bring buckets to piss and shit into. And imagine the outrage when one conductor had the_ audacity _to have Death played by an_ actual _woman. There were fucking_ riots."

"Oh? What happened?"

" _The mob tore the conductor to pieces and burned down the amphitheater, and half the district along with it. Man, those were the days."_ Ohm's voice had taken a wistful note during the last part. Aeren meanwhile was quite sure he had heard enough.

"Uh, well, that surely was enlightening. But I think we had better get a move on."

"Yes," Errake added.

" _Very well, I won't keep you any longer. Until next time."_ Here, his voice changed once more. " _Alas, my brothers lay slain! Woe descend'd on dark wings!"_

Aeren thought he saw the dead arm shiver for a second, but it could have just been a trick of the light.

* * *

They rode the elevator back up again, turning to the door on the right. As it opened, Aeren felt a cold draft from the darkness behind. When they stepped through, he realized that they must be in a large, open space. Arrays of bright fluorescent tubes flashed to life, and Aeren saw, that they had indeed entered a large hall, carved into the side of the asteroid. Several floors of balconies ran along its sides, connected to each other via broad ramps. And on the balconies were showcases, filled with weapons, artifacts and various other items; the walls were covered with paintings, banners and tapestries. But most of all, there were rows and rows of writings: tomes of every fashion, parchments and scrolls, and tablets of stone and metal.

Aeren was astounded. He leaned on the handrail of the floor they were standing on, and looked up and down. He estimated that the room must be thirty meters high, and more than a hundred meters long.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"A vault of history. Things I have collected over the years."

"To what end?"

"Knowledge is its own end. A true warrior must also be a scholar, lest he only strengthens his body and lets his mind decay; and knowledge can also be a powerful weapon. People write about a great many things: what keeps the universe together; the intricacies of life; the trappings of the mind; the very nature of humanity."

"The nature of humanity?"

"Mhm."

Aeren let his eyes wander over the assembled treasures. "Have you read everything that's here?"

"Not in it's entirety. I _have_ looked into every single piece; but these days I only fully read things that bring something new to the table. But that hasn't happened for some time."

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that after a while, certain patterns emerge. Turns out, humans are mostly concerned with a limited set of themes, and are capable of only so many permutations of said themes."

Aeren's head swam. He wasn't sure he was understanding all of this. He swallowed.

"Come," Errake said. "There is something I want to show you."

He lead the boy down to the bottom level, into a space between two bookshelves on the left side. There were two display cases against the wall, each containing a book. The first was a small, unadorned gray paperback; the other was a massive tome, at least a meter tall, more than half a meter wide and easily four decimeters thick. It was clad in dark leather and crusted with gems and fittings made of precious metals.

Errake flipped a switch, and the two cases opened with a hiss of air. "What do you make of these?" he asked.

Aeren felt drawn to the opulent piece on the right. He raised his hands in order to open it, but stopped short. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

There was no title on the splendorous front plate, so he turned it, finding it remarkably heavy. He saw that the inside was just as magnificent as the binding, as every page had been painstakingly written by hand, and many were decorated with elaborate drawings. They also weren't made of paper, but of some other, more leather-like material. Aeren recognized the script as High Gothic, which he had learned to read in the past months; though some of the letters looked different to those he was used to. " _Lectio Divinatus_ ", he read. "'Divine Teachings'?"

"Mhm." Errake nodded. "Commonly, it is translated as ' _Lessons of the Divine'_. What of the other one?"

Aeren carefully closed the heavy manuscript and turned his attention to the one on the left. Of this he could make very little. It was of considerably lower quality: machine printed, with many of the letters smudged or blurred, and devoid of pictures. The language however was completely unknown to him. "I can't read it."

"Why do you think I placed these two books next to each other?"

Aeren had no clue. "To show that there is a great variety in the make of books?"

"No. Try again."

The boy looked at them again. The two pieces couldn't have been more different. After a while, he shook his head. "I have no idea."

"These books, as different as they may be, share the same title. They are both copies of the _Lectio._ The right one is about six hundred years old. The left is from the time of the Great Crusade; you can't read it because it is written in Gothic as it looked ten thousand years ago."

Once more Aeren felt that vast span of time pressing down on him; but before he could grasp a thought, Errake, picking up the book and opening it, continued. "I's a fourth edition. And it looks the way it does, because when it was first written, it was a forbidden book; heretical, one might even say."

"Why?"

"Because it claims that the Emperor is a divine being, and ought to be worshiped as such." Errake placed the book back into the case. "The quality is so low because it had to be printed in secret, as the Emperor always denied his own divinity. But it went even further: worship of so called 'divine' powers was explicitly forbidden. I'm sure you appreciate the irony."

Aeren said nothing. His learning the Emperor was just a psyker had been a heavy blow; a small part of him, deep down, still had trouble accepting this revelation.

"And they _still_ insisted on worshiping him? Even against his will?"

"Yes. The biggest irony of all, however, is the identity of the original author."

Aeren looked at him.

"It was none other than Lorgar."

The name rang a bell. "Wait, _that_ Lorgar? The Primarch of the seventeenth legion?"

"Yes. The same Lorgar who would later introduce the worship of Chaos into the legions." Errake shook his head. "Of all the damn fools in history, Lorgar may well have been the greatest."

"I find it hard to believe the Imperium would use a book written by a heretic."

"Of course you won't find any reference to Lorgar in the later editions, and it doesn't end there; were you to compare these two versions, you'd be unable to reconcile their contents. The point of the first one was to convince the people that the Emperor is a god; in the second, that's a given. Instead it talks at length about imperial sacraments, and lists a host of saints and the miracles attributed to them."

Errake returned to the control panel, sealing the cases once again.

"But I haven't brought you here to discuss religion; the _topic_ of these books ultimately isn't as important as their _relation_ to each other. Do you understand what lesson I want to teach you?"

"To show me..." Aeren frowned. "To show me that different people have different opinions on things?"

"You can do better than that. Take some time to think it over, and consider everything I have said."

Aeren nodded thoughtfully.

* * *

They were about to depart, when Aeren discovered something in a shadowy corner of the room: a large glass tube, rising from a clutter of machinery, and in it, a suit of power armor. "What is that?"

Errake stopped short. "Mhm. That thing."

They walked over to the tube, and Errake switched on some additional light, allowing the _thing_ to be seen more clearly. It was indeed Astartes armor, albeit much more archaic than any Aeren had ever seen. Stranger still were its decorations: in places, it looked downright _warped,_ as if someone had heated the ceramite up to sculpt the semi-molten metal, imprinting it with patterns and designs, and draw sharp spikes out. Many parts had a slick, oily looking sheen to them, or were covered in soot, and what looked like dried blood – and viscera. On one of the pauldrons was a large ornament in the shape of a half-opened eye with a slit-like pupil, framed by a brass halo and an eight-pointed star. But what stuck out the most was the chest piece: it had been deformed by a massive impact, rendering it effectively concave. Aeren shuddered thinking about what could muster such terrible strength.

"Anything on there that you recognize?" Errake asked.

Aeren swallowed. "That on the shoulder… that's the eye of Horus, isn't it?"

"Correct. This was the third suit of armor I ever wore. It accompanied me during the later part of the great Crusade, as well as the Heresy. I stopped using it after the battle of Terra."

Aeren's eyes were glued to the armor, trying to absorb every hideous detail. It beckoned with tales of bloodshed and insanity.

"What was it like? Fighting on Holy… I mean Terra."

"Right, it wasn't so holy back then. Hold on." The old Marine pressed a sequence of buttons on a nearby control panel. "I'm deactivating the stasis field. Should give you an even better impression."

A hum, emanated by the machinery below the tube and unnoticed by Aeren up until this point, faded out. Although the armor remained outwardly unchanged, Aeren felt as if it had suddenly gained a _presence_ somehow, as if he was no longer looking at an inanimate object, but rather something possessed by some form of alertness, something radiating a subtle dread. He involuntarily took a step back.

"There's more." A final button press, and the glass tube began to sink into its pedestal. A moment later, a murderous stench assaulted Aeren's olfactory facilities. "Fucking hell!" he gasped, recoiling. Never before in his life had he smelled something so vile: copper, bile, sweat, offal and rot all mixing together to form this hellish odor. Sickness seized his stomach, and he struggled to not disgorge his latest meal. At the same time however, this nauseating sensation conjured a recent memory, flashing into his mind: a dark chamber, and the emaciated body of Liz Cordeau in it. Back then, he had smelled something similar, but it had been much more subdued, hidden beneath the reek of her more human functions.

"The stench of corruption," he heard Errake's voice explaining. "Be careful to never get _too_ used to it."

"Emperor." He was still reeling. Once more, he was shown the ruinous influence of Chaos: the armor appeared to him like a festering boil on the world, foulness made manifest. "You actually _wore_ this thing?"

"Yes. It was… a different time."

Aeren took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his innards. "I want to know more. Tell me… tell me of the end."

Errake closed his eyes and inhaled and _they are marching down the broad avenue leading to the Eternity Gate, the walls and spires of the Imperial Palace rising left and right like an artificial canyon. Long has been the road that has brought him here – long and bloody. He has lost count of the number of_ _battles he has fought since setting foot on Terra's ancient soil; or maybe it was just a single, drawn out one. Time and space have lost some of of their consistency under the wailing, burning skies._

 _Around him, the hosts of Chaos claw forward. Over the course of the invasion, the various armies and units have intermingled, mixing like spilled poisons, and so he finds himself amidst World Eaters, daemons, and_ _contingents of some of the other legions. He can smell them even through his helmet: ozone, steel, blood and feverous energy._

 _The Gate lies before them: vast, defiant, immeasurably strong, the final bulwark between them and the False Emperor. Only a few enemies are left to hold it: remnants of the Imperial Fists and Custodes. And the slavering hordes press on, eager to tear them apart and feast on their flesh. So close to victory they are, and then they will have their vengeance._

 _But lo, there is a flash and a loud bang, and the foremost rows of attackers are scattered by a blast of displaced air; and then,_ he _is_ _there, Sanguinius, beautiful and terrible, a monument of arrogance. He is a blazing star in this storm of unlight, and the daemons shiver and wail under his wrathful, radiant_ _gaze. Immediately he falls upon the attackers, and his singing blade cuts through them as a scythe cuts through grass. Still, they attack him from three sides, try to pile on him, to overpower him; but they_ _are impotent before his might._

 _Errake_ _too strives to make his way to the winged Primarch, for although there is a part in him, a tiny voice that calls for caution or even fear, it is drowned out by his hatred and his devotion to the Warmaster; they are all that matter now. But before he can reach him, Sanguinius' eyes look up, having caught hold of a new, a far greater threat: a shadow of vast wings falls over them, and the force of their beat shakes the ground. A terrible roar descends, a challenge and a threat: "I HAVE COME FOR YOU, SON OF BAAL!"_

 _The Primarch jumps back to evade the vast daemon that drops into the mayhem, his claws crushing the rockcrete instead. Although Sanguinius is a giant, he is dwarfed by the frame of the bloodthirster Ka'Bandha, who sets upon him with his fell ax. Around them, time seems to slow, as all eyes are drawn to the clash of these two titans, whose exchange of blows sends shock waves through the onlookers. They circle each other in a dance of death, too fast even for the assembled Astartes to follow. But the weeks of strife have left their mark on the Primarch, and he is hard pressed to match his enemy blow for blow. Then, the scales_ _tip: Sanguinius stumbles, and Ka'Bandha's ax smashes him to the ground, his sword spiraling away. The daemon raises his arms, roaring in triumph; but Sanguinius isn't defeated, not yet: with a push of his wings he jumps back to his feet and grabs the bloodthirster, who is taken by surprise; and to the horror of the traitors, and the amazement of the defenders, he brings the daemon's back down on his knee with a mighty crack. So forceful is this blow, that Ka'Bandha's ribs break and their splintered ends are forced out of his chest. The daemon goes limp, and for a moment a dread silence descends on everything. Then, Sanguinius rises, and tosses the already disintegrating body between the invaders._

 _Errake, close by, is the first to wake from his stupor; he is still an Astartes, and his instincts and reflexes force him into action. The Primarch is weakened and unarmed: now is the time to strike. With a scream, he rushes forward. His senses are sharpened to a razor's edge, and every detail of the giant before him is embossed into Errake's mind with utmost clarity: the intricate details of the golden armor, nicked and bent and blood-spattered; the shining, ethereal white wings, alone pristine and unsullied; the radiance that burns so in his eyes. The Primarch turns to him, and their eyes meet; and once more, time comes to a standstill. He later won't be able to say how long this moment lasted, but right now it feels like a very long time. He stares at a vengeful god, at a baneful gorgon; and all his being is stripped away, his innermost laid bare. He is like a child staring into the sun. Then Sanguinius' boot hits him in the chest, compacting his armor and crushing his ripcage. With violent force he is catapulted through the air and crashes into a sidewall. As he ricochets off of it, he sees Sanguinius turning and striding back to the gate. His sword jumps into his hand, compelled by the Primarch's psychic might. Errake meanwhile falls, and he realizes there is a gap between the road and the wall, opening to a dark abyss. And there's no air left in his lungs to scream as the darkness swallows him._

* * *

 **A/N: Yikes, what a huge chapter. I think this may be the longest one yet. The good news is that my inspiration seems to return, this was actually a blast to write for the most part.  
**

TAINTLORD: **Glad you enjoy it : )**

* * *

 **Thanks for reading.  
**


	6. Severance

6 - Severance

 _Errake falls through the darkness, the seconds rushing by in a trauma induced haze. Then, he impacts hard, his fall violently broken by a piece of palace superstructure growing from the mountainside. He passes out, only to awake seconds later to a cacophony of alarms and red warnings flashing before his eyes. His armor is on the verge of giving up the ghost, but there is a much greater concern: while he has narrowly escaped death by gravity, he still can't breathe, his compacted armor leaving no space for his shattered rib cage to expand into. And so he rises, grabbing a nearby beam for support, all the while sending a specific neurochemical signal through his black carapace. It takes three seconds, then the emergency charges fire, breaking key connections that keep his armor together; the ceramite peels off of him like a layer of thick, petrified skin. And Errake breathes, draws in air with a long, raspy wheeze. Pieces of broken bone dig through his innards, but that won't kill him; for now, he has escaped the Reaper. Stripped of the layer of machinery that previously isolated him from his environment, a host of new sensations rush into him: the air is ice cold and thin, forcing his hearts to pump faster to compensate for the oxygen deprivation. He smells soot and ash; oil, concrete, steel, the tang of war. It is exhilarating, the sensation of being alive after a brush with death; death at the hand of a Primarch no less._

 _As his breath is slowing, he turns his thoughts to his next steps. For a moment he considers climbing back up; but above, the sounds of battle have abated, the fighting concluded for the moment; there is also the very real possibility that the daemons or his brothers might turn on him in his weakened state. But is there another option: the beam that he landed on is attached to a massive tube that runs between two large, dark edifices, a few hundred meters apart. And close by, a service hatch; a promise of hiding, of moving unseen. He recovers his bolter and his chainsword, and casts a short look down the side; deep below he sees further structures clinging to the mountains, only shadows in the twilight, glistening with tiny lights. Grinning over his good fortune, he puts an ear to the icy metal of the hatch. But there is nothing to hear but the distant drone of machinery. He pulls the hatch open, the metal warping and tearing like tinfoil around the locking mechanism._

 _He walks through the underbelly of the palace; service tunnels, water feeds and sewage pipes. Lacking a light, he relies on his ears and nose, as well as his refined sense of orientation. He moves away from the Eternity Gate, back to the space ports; unless he can find a new suit of armor, this battle is over for him._

 _With his armor, he has also lost the contact to his brothers, and so he has no idea how the siege is evolving. Occasionally he hears the sound of war above: impacts and explosions, slightly shaking the ground, but distant and muffled by many meters of rock and plasteel. For days he walks on, meeting not a single soul save for the giant rats that inhabit these dark parts; the rats that he kills and devours raw and whole._

* * *

 _High above, the Warmaster's flagship hangs in low orbit around Terra, surrounded by allied ships and the carcasses of the long concluded space battle, brooding, reveling in the slaughter that still rages on below. The_ Vengeful Spirit _has long stopped to be a mere construct. Infused with the warp, this dreadful leviathan has gained a sort of life of its own, inspired by a dull consciousness and an undying hunger._

 _Barely a light dares to illuminate the cavernous bridge; for here sits Horus, the Warmaster himself. And although his Father once bestowed this title upon him, even the Emperor might not recognize his son now; for he has undergone many changes in the last decades, changes brought on by this new allegiances and furthered by the great war he has unleashed: a vast, corrupted monstrosity he has become, shrouded in arcane energies, and seething with an aura of permanent, barely contained rage._

 _And he is displeased: the conquest of Terra drags on, and the losses are mounting. Finally done is his composure when one of his lieutenants steps before him, dropping to one knee: Erebus, First Chaplain of the Word Bearers. "Ill tidings, my master. The diviners tell of a large fleet of loyalists that is on its way here. It is comprised of the brood of Caliban and the dogs of Fenris; and the bastard sons of Guilliman follow in their wake."_

" _How long?" growls the Warmaster. The spirits that whirl around him screech in dismayed resonance._

" _They will be here in two days."_

 _Horus roars. It is an inhuman, bestial sound, and the ship shivers with his fury. A nearby group of soldiers is annihilated, devoured by the warp stuff that spills from Horus's flickering frame. Erebus gets blasted across the hall, and it takes all his powers to not get vanquished as well._

 _Horus's rage knows no limit. To have victory snatched from him when it's so close – it reeks of the Fateweaver's meddling. The Warmaster breathes heavily, his mind twisting and churning, trying to come up with a solution to this conundrum. "Very Well." He addresses the crew, now little more than desiccated wretches, long enslaved by the machine they once controlled. "Drop the shields!" They know better than to question his orders. Beyond the giant windows lies a sickly red barrier; it now tears open, frays and finally dissipates. Horus drops heavily into his command throne. It is now utterly silent on the bridge, as if sound itself has shied away as to not draw the Warmaster's foul attention. "Very well," he says again, more to himself than to the sycophants surrounding him. Then he raises his eyes to the front, where accursed Terra still hangs, red and mocking. "Come to me,_ Father _," he spits into the darkness, more venom than words. "I am waiting for you."_

* * *

 _Errake has found his way back to daylight, such as it is. The space port is just ahead. It is quiet here; the battle is elsewhere, behind him. Still, as he makes his way through the ruined city, his heavy steps echoing through this architectural wasteland, he remains alert; a lapse of vigilance is unthinkable. Still, his mind is somewhat occupied: about an hour ago, a strange sensation has crept into him, and he finds his eyes drawn to the sky more then once. Somehow, he knows that something important is happening up there, and the air is heavy with portent.  
Suddenly, his eyes are forced upwards once more, and his hearts are beating faster; nothing can be seen but the heavy clouds, and even they seem to have calmed as if holding their breath. Whatever is transpiring clearly is about to reach its culmination._

 _Unbeknownst to him, all the servants of the Dark Gods feel it, share his premonition, and so do all who are sensitive to the Immaterium. A storm is building, throbbing in his skull and exerting pressure on his temples.  
And then it hits him, like a shard of ice through the forehead: a scream like a billion shrieking voices, and it feels as if his head is torn asunder. He is no stranger to pain, but this defies anything he has ever experienced and the voices are still screaming_

FEARRagEBetRaYaLlOsSdeFEATanDithurtSUssoSOMUCHTheLiGhtITBurnsburnsBURNS

 _And then it is over. The voices fall silent, and a cool, black emptiness pools into his mind. He has fallen to his knees, and still flashes of light are dancing before his eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly his eyesight returns. And with the seconds comes realization. Everything is gone. Everything. Gone are the whispers that he only now realizes were always there, always at the back of his mind. Gone are the shadows that he only now realizes were always lurking around, always just beyond the edge of his vision. Gone are his brothers, gone is the connection that he always thought to be mere familiarity. Gone is the veil that has held him for so long, always coloring his thoughts, his emotions. For the first time in decades, he is truly, utterly himself. And for the first time in decades, he is truly, utterly alone. He looks around as if awakening from a long sleep, as a blind man given vision. The air is still choking with smoke, the sky still darkened by the black clouds; but still, he takes it all in as if for the first time. And in a way, it is so. There is now a clarity in him that is both exhilarating and painful, both liberation and torment, and he_ knows. _He knows that Horus is dead, the siege broken, the war lost._

 _He knows that he has been dancing to the Chaos Gods' tunes, a puppet stringed by clawed hands. He knows that he has been used, not by the Warmaster, but by forces that care for naught but their own vapid hunger. He_ sees. _He sees the bloody path that has led him here, a road stretching into the past, through years and lightyears. And the road becomes a vertical cliff, and he falls, his mind rushing past all that he has experienced: battles, worlds, destruction, atrocity; a chronology of war. And everything is_ _illuminated by the merciless harsh light of realization. All the triumphs, all the glories show their ugly truth under this light, their shiny shells stripped away and revealing nothing but ashes, fodder for their laughing puppeteers._

" _Oh," he says to himself, barely aware of the words. "Oh you bloody fool."_

 _And down, down the cliff of time he falls, and finally comes to a day oh so long ago, to a planet called Davin, and to a Warmaster gravely wounded. And a great sorrow fills his heart, for he_ sees; _sees that the man that he loved like a father never rose from his sickbed. That that which rose was just another puppet, a twisted thing with cruel eyes. And his heart aches also for himself and all of them that were set on that path winding into the future; the path then shrouded in twilight, now painfully lit._

 _Only seconds pass during this odyssey, although it feels much longer to him. A lesser man might have gone insane; to realize that one has been deceived for so long, that one has danced merrily on strings woven from opiate falsehoods, may very well crush a man's spirit. But Errake is what he is: a warrior carved from the sternest stuff, his mind tempered by lifetimes worth of discipline and strife. And as his training asserts itself once more, he is pulled back to the situation at hand._

" _Alright," he exhales. "Alright. First things first."_ Time to get off this fucking planet.

 _Only then does he notice the thin stream of tears running down his scarred face, and he wipes a finger across his cheek in bewilderment._

* * *

Aeren had listened with rapt attention, completely absorbed in the tale. When Errake didn't continue, he spoke up. "So what happened then?"

The old one shrugged. "I found a shuttle and returned to one of the renegade ships. After we went to warp, I took control with some others who were also fed up with Chaos. Ten thousand years passed. Now we are here."

Aeren pondered what he had heard. "Were you ever tempted to… you know, try to go back? Make amends?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Errake took a deep breath. "It was simply inconceivable. When we split from the loyalists, we became their dark mirror image, their antithesis; each side saw the other as a failed part of itself. And we hated with abandon. Remember how you felt with Cordeau?"

Aeren nodded, swallowing. He remembered better than he liked.

"Now imagine stoking that feeling for close to a century, and you might get an idea what it was like." He shook his head. "We couldn't come together any more than fire and water."

"Hm."

"And besides," Errake continued, "what I had seen behind the Imperium's facade had left me disillusioned, even though Chaos had a hand in that." He shrugged again. "And in the hands of lesser men the Imperium started to decay pretty much immediately, so I found I was glad to be free of my shackles."

Aeren said nothing, letting it all sink in.

"Now. Enough of this old crap. There's a war waiting for us, and you still have a lot to learn."

* * *

Errake sealed up his old armor again, and they turned to leave. Behind them, the lights went out, cloaking the samples of history in shadow once more. They reached the shuttle, this time unmolested by Ohm's thespian affectations.

When they were strapped into their seats in the shuttle, Errake folded his arms. "So. Let's see what you remember of these controls."

* * *

He had Aeren fly the shuttle back to the _Deimos_ ; it was a welcome new challenge for the boy, even though the complicated docking process had him sweat blood. After that he was left to his own devices for a while and wandered around the ship, lost in thoughts.

* * *

Errake meanwhile retired to his study, where Endymion was already waiting for him.

* * *

"We received a message while you were gone. Rendezvous coordinates for the next sortie."

"Good. We're done here, so let's head there right away."

"There's something else."

Errake looked at him.

"Apparently there was a change of plans. We won't be joining Iron Warriors after all."

Errake looked at him.

"You are not going to like this."

"Endymion."

"It's Word Bearers. A shitload of them."

Errake's expression remained blank. "Word Bearers," he said after a moment. "Even Abaddon should realize that this complicates things."

"Does he know of the bad blood between you and the Bearers?"

"As Warmaster, he should."

"Maybe he just doesn't care."

"That would be so like him." Errake shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if he _wants_ to lose this war." After a moment, he spoke again. "Who leads them?"

"A fellow named Appolonius Castor. You know him?"

"No. That is something at least."

"They call him 'the Jubilant'. Rank of Lord Commander. Dark Apostle. And a bunch of other titles."

"Hm."

"What are you going to do?"

Errake shrugged. "What else? I'll meet him and build my strategy."

They were quiet for a moment, and a broad smile appeared on Endymion's face. "You have to appreciate the irony: our target a shrine world, our allies Word Bearers. Two groups of religious fanatics about to clash, and our motley crew right in the middle, led by you who couldn't care less for either side. Never let it be said that the universe doesn't have a sense of humor."

"Yes, but an annoying one."

* * *

 **A/N: It's been a while. I considered abandoning the story several times, but that didn't sit right with me. This chapter is one of the ones I fiddled around with a long time, and I'm coming to the impression that too much fiddling does more harm than good.**

Mr. Exterminatus: **Thanks, your review kindled my spark of motivation enough to finish this one.**

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 **Thanks for reading.**


	7. Transit

7 – Transit

 _In the warp, twenty seven days to destination_

The swimming hall was a utilitarian affair; clad in large, light gray tiles and lit by harsh, white tubes. That was why Aeren had his eye closed; not that much of it would have reached him anyway, as he was sitting on the pool's floor, three meters below the surface. He liked to do that: coming here in the small hours, when the ship's corridors were mostly deserted. He would swim a few lanes, his muscles still sore from the previous day's training. And then he would descend, his lungs filled with precious air, and sit down, cross legged, all senses pacified save for his hearing; there was no escaping the ships ambient drone, and down there it was even amplified somewhat, but he didn't mind. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed the low hum that filled his ears. It had a calming quality to it.

These were the only times when he had the leisure to really think. And think he did. Minutes at a time, until his body started protesting the amount of carbon-dioxide in his blood, forcing him to return to the air above.

The thing that occupied him the most remained of course his place in the world and the _path_ ; the path that Errake had placed him upon, and that he found himself increasingly conflicted about. The upcoming campaign loomed on the horizon like storm clouds, and there seemed to be little doubt that this time, they would fight properly; and that put him in an uncomfortable place. He didn't want to meet imperials on the battlefield. While he had come to loathe the Imperium, he still held dear its people; _his_ people. He was painfully aware that had he had already become a traitor to them on Mahamat, when he had killed the Rajais' guards. And then there was the orbital strike he had requested, and that had killed so so many. This egregious act was still very present for him, always lurking in the back of his mind, ready to jump him in an opportune moment. And the guilt weighed heavily. Sometimes he would dream about it; about people screaming and burning, and grasping at him with charred fingers, trying to pull him into the fire as well. When he then woke up, drenched in sweat, he would lie there, in the dark, trying to calm his racing hearts. He'd listen to the breath of the girls next to him, trying to draw some of their stillness for himself. Sometimes, Jessyca was awake; he wasn't sure how he knew that, but he knew – something about how she breathed perhaps? The first time he had called out to her, quietly; but she hadn't answered, and after that he hadn't tried again.

He felt that she was loathing him for what he had done; not that he blamed her much. At times he loathed himself.

And that led also led to further problems; how he was supposed to add even more his already considerable body count was beyond him. Perhaps he needed to abandon the _path_ after all.

Something changed. Aeren opened his eye and looked up; a shadow had fallen over him. He waited for a moment, then ascended, propelling himself with powerful strokes.

When he broke through the surface, he recognized Endymion, who was lying by the pool's edge, draped in a robe of white, translucent cloth.

"Good morning," the Astartes smiled.

"Morning," Aeren replied curtly, pushing himself out of the water and grabbing his towel.

"How are you today?"

"Same as always." He dried his face first, then proceeded to replace his bionic eye.

"Hm. Still at odds with the world."

"Something like that." Aeren sighed. "The more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that all this is probably a mistake. I don't think I can continue on the path." He shook his head. "I want to fight _for_ the people, not against them. How can I resolve this problem?"

"From your current perspective, it isn't solvable," Endymion answered. "Would you rather fight the Word Bearers?"

"Fighting Astartes? Seems futile."

"That didn't stop you when you met Errake."

"Yeah, but back then I had my faith; and I had accepted that I would die. I thought I was about to stand before the Emperor, and that it was not the time for cowardice."

"So you conquered your fear."

"I didn't exactly have time to be afraid."

"And how was it with Orthan?"

"Same, really. I was focused on surviving."

"And when you meet your next enemy, it will be the same. Why beat yourself up over it after the fact?"

"I don't understand."

"You only suffer once the battle has ended; but in that moment, it's already in the past."

"Yeah, but I still have the memory."

"But what _is_ a memory? Nothing but a picture, an illusion. You can learn from them, but chewing on them is pointless."

"That sounds like subterfuge; even if it's in the past, it still happened."

"Can you change the past?"

"No. But that doesn't matter."

"No? You must realize that you're suffering for something that can never be changed or resolved; this debt can never be repaid – so are you going to carry this guilt for the rest of your life?"

"Perhaps."

"Then you will only add to it. In time, the weight of that burden you put on yourself will crush you. If that is what you want to do, then Errake was truly mistaken about you, and you waste his gift and will lose it before long. He is as patient as any man I have known; that is, if he thinks it will pay off. But he will tear the gene seed out of you the moment he comes to the conclusion that you don't have what it takes after all."

"I know that. But I can't help it. Maybe Errake was wrong. Maybe _I_ was wrong about this whole business. No, right now I feel that I was definitely wrong. I don't see a way out."

"That's because you're obstructing your own vision."

Aeren didn't answer. Endymion looked at him for a moment, watching his silent despair. "So. You are willing to throw everything away?" There was no accusation in his voice, only gentle curiosity.

"Perhaps it is the only thing for me to do. I know I will likely pull Jessyca and Ada down with me, but perhaps that's the price that must be paid to prevent me from becoming a scourge on the people of the Imperium."

As he spoke those words, he felt they rang true, and with every passing moment the outcome seemed clearer.

"You speak as though you weren't in control of your own actions; as though you becoming a 'scourge' would be inevitable."

"Isn't it? We are on our way to fight Imperials _right now._ "

"'Fighting' isn't the same as being a scourge. In fact, most of the scourging usually happens off the battlefield."

"Fine. But even fighting I don't want to do."

Endymion looked contemplative. "Then whom do you want to fight?"

"Xenos. Mutants. Anyone who threatens Humanity."

The Astartes smirked. "It could be argued that right now, the Imperium itself is the biggest threat to humanity. I thought you yourself had recognized as much."

"That may be true, but I would fight the institution, not its people."

"Ah, but wouldn't you agree that the people make up the institution? Think of the Arbites, the Administratum, the Ministrorum. Even the billions of common folk, who are devout followers of the _Cult Imperialis_. You are fooling yourself if you think the people and the governing body are separate."

Aeren frowned. "So you're saying I should just give up right now."

"I'm _saying_ that if you actually want to abolish the Imperium, you better get used to the thought of fighting, because the people themselves are a part of it and won't abandon it just because you ask nicely."

The boy slumped. "So that leaves me with nothing."

Endymion put his head back and laughed.

"What's so funny?" Aeren asked, putting on a dour mien.

"You're such a child," Endymion grinned.

"Why? Because I don't want to fight?"

"No. Because you think things can be achieved without sacrifice. Kind of ironic, considering that you have already sacrificed considerably yourself." He became serious again and pointed to the surface of the pool, which had returned to an almost undisturbed plane at this point. "Look at your reflection, Aeren. What do you see?"

Aeren bowed over the edge. "I see scars; my bionic eye. I barely recognize myself lately."

"Hm. Want to know what I see?"

Aeren nodded.

"I see a warrior. I see someone who has suffered and is stronger for it. I see someone that should be able to realize that nothing in life comes free; that the greatest tasks demand the greatest of sacrifices."

Aeren frowned. "So you're saying I should just say 'fuck it' and sacrifice people?"

"It is both necessary and worthy; only those who are prepared to go all the way make the world turn."

"What about my guilt?"

"Suffer it, if you must. Consider it another sacrifice." Endymion shook his head. "Remember, Aeren: you have been given a chance that only a privileged few ever get. Discarding it would be a waste. Make use of it; become the shield you want to be. And honor the sacrifices; your own, and the ones of those you meet."

Aeren breathed heavily. "I don't know if I can do this."

Endymion fixed his golden eyes on the boy's, looking deeply into him. "Try. That is all I'm saying. If you find that you can't do it after all, so be it. But trying and failing is better than to lie down and let the chance go to waste."

Aeren nodded slowly. "All right. I'll try."

Endymion nodded encouragingly. "That's all anyone can ask."

Aeren stood up and began to dress. When he was finished, he turned to leave. Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back once more. "Say, Endymion. Have you sacrificed?"

The Astartes smiled and shook his head. "No. But I don't have your noble aspirations either."

* * *

 _Twenty four days to destination_

The smell of food welcomed Aeren as he approached the Deimos' officer's mess: roasted meat and heavy spices, and other, more exotic aromas.

There had been a time when eating was his favorite part of the day; while not as sophisticated as the meals he had had on Mahamat, food on the Deimos was still tasty and varied. Considering he had often gone hungry for a large part of his life, this was an aspect of the current situation that he had very much gotten used to. That is, until the _fattening_ had started. They had explained it to him: in order to prepare for a lengthy time in the field, the Astartes would eat even more than their usual, already ridiculous amounts of food to put on reserves. What that translated to was an every-evening spectacle of industrial-scale feeding; needless to say, the initial joy for the gluttony had vanished rather quickly.

When he passed the dark wooden doors, the assembly was already in session. The only noises to be heard where those associated with eating: the clatter of plates, the breaking of bones, the wordless slurping, chewing and grunting of the Astartes. Slaves moved quietly to and fro, bringing new plates of food and clearing the ones already emptied. No one was talking; it was a well rehearsed ritual, in which the Astartes were just as familiar with their parts as the servants, focused on the unpleasant but necessary task. There was little decorum to be observed; many of the giants forwent the use of cutlery, instead digging in with their bare hands and chewing noisily, bits of food and drink flying left and right. They also weren't too picky with the food itself, shoveling in meat, bone and sinew with the same stoic determination, and crushing it all in their mighty jaws. One of the few exceptions was, of course, Endymion who, as if to make a point, had _several_ sets of knives, forks and spoons laid before him, and ate with his usual poise and grace. The procedure had left its mark on him as well; his chiseled features had softened and rounded considerably in the past weeks.

Nobody took notice of Aeren. The Astartes weren't interested in him as he wasn't yet one of them, and the attendants moved around him without looking up, as if he were a ghost: present enough to be unconsciously noted and avoided, but not manifested enough to warrant direct contact.  
The boy shuffled to the chair he had been assigned: a small, unassuming thing at the end of one of the large tables; Errake sat far away from him, as did Endymion. In truth, there was no rigid seating order; everyone just sat down wherever there was a free spot. Aeren realized that this was to enforce Errake's notion of him being "first among equals", of there being no actual hierarchy – except of course there was.

He sat down and immediately a full platter was set before him: meat, roots, greens, fruit. He wasn't really hungry but he knew it was expected of him to eat; another part of his training. Grabbing knife and fork, his eyes shot up for a moment, and he paused. Opposite of him, one table over, sat one of the younger Astartes, who had been introduced to him as "Shine". Like Endymion, he belonged to the Emperor's Children – but the two couldn't have been more different. Unlike Errake's lieutenant, this one seemed to embrace the darker aspects of his patron deity – and everything that came with that. Aeren had noticed that there always seemed to burn a fire behind his eyes, gleaming out with a mad hunger. His most distinct feature however, was that his lips and parts of his facial muscles had been removed, laying bare his teeth in a permanent, sinister rictus. And right now, grease and black gravy were running down from this disfigured mouth, reminding Aeren of blood. All of this didn't do much to bolster his appetite. Shine caught his glance, and what remained of his cheeks bulged in a way that indicated he would be grinning – if he weren't doing that anyway. A shudder ran down Aeren's spine.

Some of Errake's marines bore distinctly the marks of Chaos, and in them, Aeren could see why Errake demanded vigilance when dealing with the ruinous powers. If that was what became of their servants, Aeren couldn't see the appeal – they gave him the creeps.

In this moment, Shine licked his teeth. His eyes were still locked on Aeren's, and the boy felt more than a little uncomfortable. He forced himself to hold the eerie stare for a moment longer, then slowly returned his eyes to his meal. It hadn't gained any appeal since the last time he had looked at it.

* * *

 _Twenty three days to destination_

"Is that a good idea, when we're about to go to battle?"

"We have to do it now, otherwise we might lose our window when you're in the field too long. You should be able to heal enough in the remaining days."

Aeren exhaled heavily. He was sitting in the apothecarium, opposite of Sabato. The thought of being cut open again was not exactly enticing. _Sacrifices,_ he thought _._ "When do we start?"

"I will finish the preparations in six hours."

* * *

Aeren lay down on the operating table, wearing only a hospital gown. "Want me to restrain you again?" Sabato asked. "You look a little nervous. I wouldn't want you to jump up and run away with your chest open."

Aeren nodded. Indeed, ever since Sabato had revealed the upcoming surgery on such short notice, a certain anxiety had taken hold of him. And now, as the procedure was about to start, cold sweat was covering his brow. "I think that would be better."

Sabato nodded and began affixing the restraints. "Now, I will be implanting both the Haemastamen and Larraman's Organ. Do you remember what they do?"

Aeren nodded. The implants of a Space Marines had been part of his biology learning. "The Haemastamen increases the efficiency of the blood when it comes to transporting oxygen and nutrients. The Larraman's Organ provides a special type of cell that can quickly cover wounds and prevent blood loss."

Sabato nodded. "I'm sure you appreciate the latter given your propensity to incur life threatening injuries."

"Ha ha," Aeren said in a flat tone. His hearts were beating fast.

Sabato finalized the last restraint. "Can you move?"

Aeren tried, and found that he could not, apart from his head; even his legs seemed to be cast in stone. "No."

"Alright." Sabato reached to the side, and procured a spotless scalpel. "Here comes the knife." Aeren's hearts were reaching a crescendo.

"You can scream if you want. I'm used to it."

The boy didn't answer, instead focusing on his breath. Cold felt the blade as it touched his skin. Then it bit, and heat flushed into his head. The sensation of the scalpel cutting was unpleasant, but bearable.

* * *

The following process of sawing through the sternum with a disk saw wasn't too bad either; only when Sabato began to force his rib cage open did Aeren begin to scream and tear at his restraints. He continued to scream into the oxygen mask Sabato put on him until he passed out. As before, he drifted in an out of unconsciousness, soon devoid of energy to scream any more, his vocal chords sore to the point where he couldn't utter a single sound. Another eternity seemed to pass while he lay there, unable to move, chained to his suffering, no more tears to cry.

* * *

 _Twenty days to destination_

When Aeren finally returned himself enough to form a somewhat coherent thought his body was a monument of pain. With every breath the oxygen machine forced through his strained throat, he thought his chest would burst open and spray his lungs all over the wall. His neck was sore and swollen taut; he was unable to move his head. Even rolling his eyes around hurt. He wanted to speak, to croak, to somehow vent his agony, but his jaw wouldn't budge. _Please,_ he thought. _Please, Emperor, make it stop._ He felt the impulse to cry, but his remaining tear duct was barren; even that was denied him. And so he could just lie there, inside this hell that his body had become, screaming silently until he had no more strength to do even that. And then he continued to lie, his mind attuning to the maddening rhythm of the forced breathing and the waves of pain it brought. At some point, somehow, Endymion's words came back to him: _honor the Sacrifices._ _Sacrifice. This is another sacrifice. Sacrifice._ He repeated this word over and over again in his head, clinging to it like a drowning man clings to a piece of wood. _Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice_ on every damned beating of his hearts. He rolled the word around, chewed on it, until the meaning dissolved from the letters; but filling his head with this mindless mantra meant there was a little less space for the pain.

* * *

 _Seventeen days to destination_

Jessyca turned the welder off and put it to the side. Taking off her helmet, she wiped sweat and grease from her brow. "Done," she said to herself. Indeed there was no one who could have heard her; she was working alone tonight. Shouldering her tools, she made her way back to the machine workshop, where she put everything back into its designated pot.

"Done for the night?" she heard a familiar voice behind her. She turned around and smiled at the newcomer, Kyle.  
"Yeah." She liked him. In fact, she liked pretty much all of the people she was working with. That they were all _technically_ heretics was a fact she generally avoided thinking about. When the Astartes Endymion had approached her with the proposition to apply with Magos Wernte for work, she had been apprehensive; she had wanted to do as little as possible with these people. But you didn't deny an Astartes, and so she had gone and met the Magos and his servants, who had immediately incorporated her into the workforce. Getting her hands on some tools again had felt amazing, even though it had stirred up some memories of her old life. She had thrown herself into the work, and for the first time in what felt forever she had been content; happy even.  
The servants of the Magos were a small society in and of themselves, and generally only beholden to their master and his acolytes, who took little interest in them as long as they fulfilled their duties. Accordingly, they enjoyed a great deal of freedom, a freedom that now extended to Jessyca as well.

"You up for drinks tonight?" One of the mechanics' hobbies was the creation (and use) of sophisticated stills, and many a night was spent with the consumption of self made spirits.

"Sure, but I first gotta tuck Ada into bed."

"Great. See you later."

Once she was done stowing her equipment, she went to find her ward. That wasn't difficult, as the little girl had found a place of her own: the shooting range. Ever since Aeren had first taken her there, she had spent every waking moment among the guns, and as it had turned out, she was a talented shot.

When Jessyca entered the range, she saw Ada lying on the ground at the far end. In front of her, propped on a bipod, was a massive lasrifle, comically oversized next to her small body. Bolts of red light cracked along the range to Jessyca's right, and behind the girl stood a few people who were whooping and cheering. "Daaamn, look at her go!"

Jessyca approached them slowly. They were obviously soldiers; she could see scars and tattoos on their lean, musclebound bodies.

"Ada," she said. Immediately, the girl jumped up and rand over to embrace her tightly.

Jessyca answered the hug and stroked the little one's head. "How was your day? Good shooting?"

"You can say that," one of the soldiers said. "She kicks all our asses on the longlas. Too bad we only have two hundred meters. Kid needs some open space and some real targets."

"Maybe it's a little early for that," Jessyca mumbled in answer. "It's late hun. Let's get you to bed."

The soldiers laughed. "Yeah, and once you're done with her you can bring _me_ to bed!" said the one who had spoken earlier, earning him an elbow in the ribs from the woman standing next to him.

"I don't think so," Jessyca said coolly. "Come on, let's go." She turned around – and stopped dead in her tracks. Endymion was leaning in the doorframe. Immediately, the clamor behind her died down. Slowly, Jessyca went down on one knee, pushing down on Ada's shoulder. "Kneel, honey," she said quietly. Ada did as she was told, although she had a confused look on her face. Endymion approached them, and Jessyca found it once again remarkable how noiseless this giant moved – if you ignored the little bells that were always on him. Although her head was bowed, she rolled her eyes up to look at him, and she saw that his expression was unusually serious; that was worrisome.

"Get up."

Jessyca rose, keeping her eyes on the floor.

"Look at me."

Slowly, she raised her head as well. His golden eyes bored into hers. Then he cocked his head, indicating the door. "Let's go for a walk." With that, he turned around. Taking Ada's hand, Jessyca followed him. Behind her, she could hear the soldiers relax and talk quietly.

They walked in silence for a while, and Jessyca's heart was beating faster. What did he want with her? Eventually, he spoke. "It has been brought to my attention that you and Aeren haven't been getting along lately." His voice was gentle, devoid of threat.

 _Oh that little rat._ "I don't know what you mean, my lord."

"Don't lie to me. I know a liar when I see her; or hear her. There were hints in your voice, and besides, your heart jumped when you answered. So?"

She felt cold sweat appear on her skin. "Yes… there was a… disagreement."

"About what?"

She didn't know what to say. _About him killing faithful imperial citizens._

Endymion stopped and turned to look at her. His expression was softer now. "I am not going to hurt you. If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine. But Aeren needs you."

Jessyca allowed herself a frown. "My work for the Magos-"

"Comes second. Remember why I picked you from that cargo hold?"

She remembered the hold. And how glad she had been to be out of there. "…To be his nurse."

"Yes. And I expect you to fulfill that role when the need arises. Like right now."

She took a deep breath. "Fine."

"Good girl. I suggest you get right to it."

* * *

 _Fifteen days_

Aeren healed, and fast. At times, he thought he could feel his tissues mend. The pain had soon gone from "living hell" to merely "excruciating" and continued to lessen. One day ago, Jessyca had shown up with some books and asked, somewhat coolly, after his condition. He had been somewhat surprised to see her, but after his latest ordeal he hadn't been in the mood for more fighting. So he let her take care of him without exchanging many words, instead focusing on healing, and the continuation of his studies.

At some point, he remembered the riddle Errake had given him in the vault: the two versions of the _Lectio Divinatus_ , separated by thousands of years and wildly different in their make-up and content.  
 _But I haven't brought you here to discuss religion_ Errake had said. _The_ _topic_ _of these books ultimately isn't as important as their_ _relation_ _to each other._ Their _relation_.  
 _What is their relation?_ Aeren thought. _They share the title and vaguely related topics. Beyond that, not much, not even their language. The first was written by Lorgar, and at the time it was considered heresy. Thousands of years passed, and the original author was kept secret; other people continued to work on it and changed things, and today it describes core aspects of the Imperial Creed._ "Wait," he said. _Change, that's it! The first book_ changed _into the second one over time, or was changed. That's their relation._ "Kind of obvious when you think about it." _So what's the lesson? That things change over time? It fits. Errake said it when he talked about the language: the first one is also written in Gothic, yet I couldn't read it because it was so old. So even_ language _changes over time. So what does that mean? Does everything change? I mean, even the way the book was viewed changed. Heresy back then, holy today. It turned into the complete opposite. So that_ is _the lesson:_ Everything changes. _And given enough enough time, it may even turn into the complete opposite. "_ Very good" he said, feeling rather pleased with himself. Jessyca just looked at him with puzzlement. "Don't worry," he said with a smug grin. "You wouldn't understand." She just scoffed.

* * *

 _Five Days_

"Everything changes," Aeren said. He was currently standing on his hands, sweat running down his skin and soaking his clothes. With each inhale, he lowered himself down, and with each exhale he pushed himself up again. His count was currently at two hundred thirty one. Around them, other Astartes were working out or sparring under the harsh light of the gym. "And given enough time, it can even turn into the complete opposite."

"Correct," Errake answered. "That is the main part of the lesson. Everything changes. Some things change very slowly, and some thing change very quickly. Especially on the battlefield change comes swiftly and unexpected. Sometimes we can influence the direction of change, sometimes not. A true warrior perceives change, or he may even predict it; but either way, he must adapt. Many battles have been lost because someone was unable to adapt to a change in situation."

"Why would they be unable to adapt?"

"Orders. Fear. Sometimes a delusion of honor or righteousness. Or lack of information. You can't adapt if you don't know what is happening. But most of the time," Errake tapped his right index finger to his brow, "a rigid mind. A warrior's mind must be fluid, changing with the ebb and flow of battle. And also outside of battle."

"I understand."

"I don't think you do. What I'm saying, Aeren, is that you must be prepared to drop _anything_ at a moment's notice: plans, notions, _body parts_. Things you have held on for years, or your entire life even."

Aeren thought about that for a moment. "Like my belief in the Emperor's divinity." Even now, saying that felt strange, as if some sort of divine punishment would follow within seconds.

"Indeed. Back then, your mind tried to resist the change. That is why you collapsed. But in time, you adapted. And you survived. Next time, you might not have the luxury of passing out."

The boy thought about that for a moment. Back then, he _had_ struggled with the revelation. But he had overcome the crisis, and life had continued. _Prepared to drop anything…_

"Well, not everything. I still want to help the people; that's why I'm doing all this, and that's why I must make sacrifices. I talked with Endymion about this a while back; dropping _that_ wouldn't make any sense."

"Perhaps. But there may come a day when you must decide between your ambition and your life."

"But that would mean giving up _everything._ What good is a life when there's nothing that lasts, nothing to motivate you?"

"If one ambition doesn't last, another will take its place. Just as the book changed, so do we."

"But if _truly_ everything can change at a moment's notice, if nothing is permanent… then nothing has real meaning, does it?"

"Yes."

Aeren didn't know what to say. Once again, he felt a rug pulled out from under him.

"In theory, anyway," Errake continued. "Practically I find that these deep shifts don't appear often."

"Some solace that is."

"Take it as you will. Let us spar now."

* * *

 _Arrival_

Aeren was meditating when the notification came over the intercom: _we've left the warp._ He got up and made his way to the bridge. The massive, gilded door wings slid open, giving vista to the cavernous, vaulted hall. Many lights shone on the sideways columns. At the far end, two hundred meters ahead, the giant, circular screen had already lit up and displayed the silhouette of an enormous ship, only dimly illuminated by red blobs of light scattered across its hull like glistening eyes. A strange sensation crept over the boy, as if he was not looking at an inanimate object, but rather a living thing, a predator alert and ready to strike. Many smaller shapes were grouped around the big ship, some sitting still, some flittering about like the giant's offspring.  
By the command throne near the center he saw Errake, Endymion, and a few other Astartes.

"They really aren't messing around," the silky baritone of the Emperor's Child welcomed him. "They must have millions on those ships."

"Hail them," Errake said.

"Open a channel!" Aeren glanced up to the throne, where there sat a man who looked almost as old as Errake, though he was an ordinary human, clad in a rich uniform and adorned with many medals. His voice, although lacking the heavy presence of Errake's rasp, still carried through the room with strength and clarity.

A few seconds later, the image on the central screen changed, revealing a figure framed in shadows. It could have been a human, but its face was distorted; the eyes were sat at different heights in the bulbous head, and its mouth was skewed as well, displaying only a few crooked teeth. It almost looked molten. Wires and cables sprouted from the bald head and twined around its bare shoulders.

Errake stepped forward. "I am Errake. I come to join Appolonius Castor of the Word Bearers."

The twisted being inclined its head slowly. " _I bid thee welcome, lord Errake. My master Appolonius the Jubilant is expecting thee and asks thee to join him on the_ Canticle of Fire _so that you may exchange courtesies and discuss plans for the upcoming_ consecration _._ "

"We will join you shortly." Errake glanced at the old man on the throne, who pressed a button on his armrest, turning off the screen.

"Well then." Endymion turned to leave. Errake meanwhile shifted his eyes to Aeren, letting his gaze rest on the boy for a few seconds as if to assess him. "This is it. Be wary."

Aeren exhaled heavily. "Will be."

Errake gave him a curt nod and strode past.

* * *

 **AN: Have a chapter. I know it's been forever, and if you're still with me I appreciate your patience. Thanks for reading.**


	8. War Council

8 – War Council

 _Shrine world St. Belizar._

 _Capital of Udin._

 _A hab block in the lower city._

The room was small, perhaps ten square meters. The only illumination were bits of orange streaking through the half closed shutters, coming from a sign on the other side of the otherwise mostly dark road. The light fell on the two figures on the narrow cot by the window, was reflected by the sweat covering their writhing bodies.

Soar's left hand glided over the back of the woman before him, while his right was resting in the bow of her hip, supporting his thrusts. With each of his pushes deep into her, they gasped in unison, their breaths accompanying the fleshy symphony of their act.

On occasion the woman let out a little yelp after a particularly vigorous penetration. Soar didn't know how long they had been going at it; in fact, he didn't much at all, his mind having dissolved in the heat shared between them in their carnal rite.

His blissful emptiness was disturbed by a sound that he suddenly noticed, a drone like that of an engine that became louder and louder, and that was strangely familiar. It came from somewhere above. Slightly annoyed, he forced his concentration back to his lovemaking. The noise however could not be ignored for long, as it continued to increase in volume.

"What.. ah- is.. that?" the woman gasped eventually, her head slightly lifting from her pillow.

"Forget it," Soar panted. _Not long now…_

But the noise would not abate, and soon threatened to drown out the rushing of blood in their ears.

"Maybe.. we.. should… unh… have a.. look."

"This can -hng- wait.. a few more minutes."

They continued for a moment longer, their attention drained more and more away from their pleasure. Suddenly, quick steps could be heard outside, and a different kind of pounding sounded from the door, accompanied by a woman's voice. "General! General Hiz!"

"What the -" Soar was now fully pulled out of his rhythm. _What is_ she _doing here?_

Exhausted, he halted his movement, breathing heavily. The hammering meanwhile continued.

"General! This is an emergency sir!"

"COMING!" Soar shouted. "Throne above."

"Who is that?" his playmate asked, sounding somewhat alarmed.

"Don't worry." Soar was already in the process of throwing on his pants. Two short steps and he threw the door open. "MARTYR'S BALLS, lieutenant! What the hell are you doing here?"

Before him stood a young woman in a spotless military uniform. Silver framed glasses mounted her narrow, deeply tanned face, and completing her appearance was her straight black hair, bound tightly in a pony tail. She was accompanied by two soldiers in full combat gear and armed with shotguns.

"We're having an emergency sir. Alpha level. The governor has called for an immediate meeting." If she was at all fazed by his incomplete state of attire, she didn't show any sign of it.

"Alpha level?" Soar repeated. He was still somewhat breathless. _What could possibly_... "All right, lieutenant, give me a minute." He turned to collect his clothes.

"Soar? What's going on?" the other woman called from the cot, provisionally covering herself with her blanket.

"Don't worry, babe. Duty calls. I'll call you tomorrow."

"You might want to consider having a shower first, general," the lieutenant interjected.

"Right."

"Who _is_ she?" the woman on the cot asked.

"That, my dear, is my assistant, the ever practical Lieutenant Belzin."

He turned towards the door again. "We'll have to pick up a uniform on the way."

The lieutenant reached to the side and produced a suitcase, tapping with the flat of her hand.

"Right. As I said, ever practical." Loosely tossing on his shirt, he stepped out of the apartment. "Shower's down the hall. Now, will you please tell me what the hell is going on?"

They started walking.

"This had better wait until we're in the shuttle, sir."

"You flew a _shuttle_ down here?"

"Yessir. It seemed to be the most efficient way, sir."

"Martyr. And I'm guessing Ejeb is the pilot."

"That is correct sir."

"Of course. Well, that at least explains the noise."

They had reached the door to the communal showers. As he pushed the door open, he caught his face in a milky plastic mirror on the left wall: the dark skin he shared with most of his people; the thin, neatly trimmed black mustache, and the short, equally black hair that was slicked back. He reckoned that he was handsome enough, although people often commented that he looked very young, almost boyish for his thirty six years. He stepped into one of the less-than-clean stalls and began undressing. "By the way, lieutenant," he said while handing his clothes to Belzin, who stood around the corner. "How the hell did you find me here?"

"Your transmitter, sir."

He turned the valve, and a blue cocktail of chemicals began to rain down on him.

"They gave you access to _that_?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Not as such, no sir."

"What do you mean, 'no'? By the way, do you have any soap?"

The lieutenant's hand appeared in the door frame, holding a creme-colored bar.

"Thanks." He began to apply the pleasantly scented product. It was a weird contrast to the harsh tang of the chemicals running over him. "You haven't answered my question."

Another hesitation. "I accessed your family's medical archives, sir."

That made him pause. "Those are classified. You could be executed if anyone finds out."

"I was careful not leave any trace, sir."

"Let's hope so. Towel."

* * *

They took the stairs to the roof, as the elevator was without energy. Before stepping out, Soar turned around and fixated Belzin and the guardsmen with his eyes. "One more thing. You will talk to no one about where you found me or what you saw here. That is an order."

"Yessir."

"Just so we're perfectly clear on this: if this comes out, it will be a major inconvenience for me. But for you, it will be the _end_. Is that understood?" Again, the three voiced their acknowledgment. "Very well. Let's go." They opened the door and walked onto the roof. There, they found the small shuttle, engines running idle. Soar and lieutenant Belzin took place in the passenger cabin; the two soldiers vanished into the cockpit. When the thickly padded doors closed, the overwhelming noise was muffled down to almost complete quietness. The shuttle lifted off, and he felt himself pushed slightly down. The true object of his attention however was Belzin, who sat opposite of him, and she needed no further encouragement. Opening a file holder, she handed him a report.

"Five hours ago our astropaths noticed a small flotilla of ships leaving the Warp at the edge of the system, near the Caipah-line."

"And?"

"That is all we know for the moment I'm afraid, sir. The Astropaths declared any further information to be level Rosarius."

"What's this nonsense? 'Rosarius'? That's no classification level."

"It's an ecclesiarchic seal, sir."

Soar's eyes went wide. "You mean the _church_ has this intel under wraps?"

"It would appear so, sir."

Soar reclined into his plush seat. "Throne."

"I've been given to understand that there will be a representative of the Ecclesiarchy at the convened meeting, sir."

"Well that's gotta be something."

"Yes sir."

No more words fell between them, and so Soar took to watching out of the window. They were still flying through the undercity, bereft of light as it was under the plate on which the upper city rested. Occasionally, large support structures rushed by closely, and Soar wasn't sure whether to commend Ejeb or have him whipped.

Eventually, they reached an access shaft, and bright sunlight poured into the cabin; Soar's eyes began to tear, so big was the difference. Higher and higher they rose, and below him Soar could now see the abodes of the highborn: parks and villas and pleasant avenues. Far beyond in the distance, he could make out the hems of the desert.  
In time, even these familiar sights disappeared as they neared the main spires where the planetary governor held office.

* * *

When he entered the large conference room, he immediately recognized the governor, who stood before the panoramic window with his back turned. Several other men were present as well: military types. Not a single one was younger than himself, or even near his age. They were all old soldiers, battlewise and heavily decorated. Soar still hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that these men were beholden to him.

Seeing him, they snapped to attention and saluted. "As you were, gentlemen." The governor turned to him as well. "Soar! Finally!" The two men approached each other and shook hands. Soar gave a slight smile. "It is good to see you, uncle." Their family resemblance was undeniable. Even with his advanced age, Riban Hiz still displayed a remainder of the youthfulness that his nephew possessed, as well as the same dark skin and straight black hair. Unlike Soar, he was clean shaven. He also was a very heavy man, weighing about twice as much as this nephew. Today he wore a white uniform, complemented by a red sash across his considerable belly. Instead of medals he contented himself with ribbons, with one exception: on his right breast were the Twin Suns in adamant, the symbol of his office.

"Where the hell have you been? Ah, don't tell me, I don't want to know." He smiled conspiratorially and patted Soar's cheek with a meaty hand. "Just make sure your father doesn't get wind of it."

"I will," Soar answered quietly. Then his smile faded. "Uncle, what is going on?"

"Hah!" Riban made a theatrical throw-away gesture. "They wouldn't tell me, can you believe that? Me, the bloody governor! Said 'this is for the church to handle'. I should have them all hanged! Bloody witches."

"It does seem strange, yes."

"Hopefully their representative will be here soon. Maybe _then_ we'll have some bloody answers."

* * *

They had to wait almost another half an hour, and Riban was getting increasingly aggravated. Finally, the door opened, and two familiar faces entered. The first Soar recognized as Prelate Odoni, a man of indeterminable age and with an aquiline face. His head was clean shaven, but his most striking feature were his bright blue eyes; paired with his dark skin, they were an uncommon sight on Belizar, and lent him an air of the exotic and peculiar. He wore a featureless black frock, and only the heavy gold chain around his neck, adorned with the sigil of the Adeptus Ministrorum, betrayed the fact that he was anything but a lowly servant of the clergy.

The other newcomer was a woman, and Soar involuntarily tensed up when he saw her: none other than Nar Divilani, the canoness of the Order of St. Belizar herself. Soar reckoned she must be in her sixties, judging by her bob of salt-and-pepper hair and the creases in her skin. Not that the way she carried herself would have lent any credence to that; there was not a hint of frailty about her. Although her body was hidden underneath a generously cut white habit, it was still possible to surmise that she was built like a steel slab, and the scar tissue running from her left eye all the way down to the angular chin allowed no doubts as to her status as a hardened veteran. Even compared to the present Guard officers, she was a very imposing figure. Soar found her unsettling. As far as he could tell, the Sisters of Battle were all utterly humorless and managed to make one feel guilty just by looking. And in that, the canoness was no exception. Her dark, piercing eyes were scanning the room even now, as if to spot any potential sinners and pin them to the ground with the force of her glare alone.

His uncle, at least, didn't seem to be intimidated in the slightest. "Finally!" he called. "How kind of the Ecclesiarchy to grace us with its presence in our hour of need!"

Odoni raised a hand in greeting. "Apologies for the delay, Lord Governor. But there are protocols that need to be observed."

" _Protocols,_ " Riban said icily. "Well if your _protocols_ have been satisfied, maybe _now_ you can tell me why I have a flotilla in my system that makes those astropath witches soil themselves."

"In a minute, Lord Governor. We will provide answers, but they are not for all ears. I ask everyone apart from yourself and the lord general to leave the room, unless they have Rosarius level clearance already."

Some of the men started to move, but Riban's face bespoke anger. "I've had QUITE enough of this, Odoni! These men are loyal servants of Belizar, and I will NOT have you question their integrity!"

The prelate remained calm. "I have no doubts that all of these are trustworthy men, but such is the law. My hands are tied in this. If you wish to discuss principles of the Ecclesiarchy with someone who has _actual_ influence, I'm sure His Holiness will be glad to give you an audience."

Riban looked as if he had some more choice words for the church man, but Soar stepped in. "Uncle. Maybe this discussion can be continued at another time." Riban looked at him, but before he could say anything, Odoni spoke again. "Once you know what we're dealing with, I will leave it to your discretion to expand the clearance as you deem necessary." The governor's eyes wandered between the two of them a few times; he was still panting. Soar looked at him with what he hoped was a calming expression. _Please, uncle._

"This isn't over," Riban said finally. Then he turned as if to to address the assembled officers, but then his eyes moved further to his nephew, and he gave the slightest of nods. Soar understood. "Gentlemen, if you would excuse us." This time, they did set into motion; only three remained at their place.

When the door had closed behind them, Riban spoke again to Odoni, whom he had fixated the entire time. "Now, that this nonsense is done with, can we _please_ begin?"

"Of course, Lord Governor. Can we have some darkness?"

* * *

They took place at the long table, while Soar pushed the switch to close the shutters. During the previous altercation, he had glanced at the canoness a few time, but her face had remained unmoved.

Riban was seated at the head of the table, and to his left Odoni and the canoness. Opposite of them, Soar and the three officers found their place. The prelate inserted a data pad into the table, and the hololithic surface lit up.

"All of you know about the ships that entered our system seven hours ago. As you may have guessed, those ships belong to heretics. However, these aren't ordinary traitors. The astropaths claim that they are servants of Chaos."

Nobody said anything.

"And?" Riban asked after a few seconds. "That doesn't mean anything to me; no doubt thanks to your bloody secrecy."

"It means, Lord Governor," one of the veterans interjected, "that they are in league with daemons."

"Daemons? I never pegged you for the superstitious type, Enrar."

"Lord Governor, daemons are very real," another one of the soldiers said.

"Tssk." Riban was impatiently tapping the tabletop. "All this hassle, and now you're wasting my time with old wives' tales."

The man who had spoken last, and whom Soar knew by the name of Balthasar, seemed to be irritated by Riban's dismissal.

"Lord Governor, I have _fought_ these 'old wives' tales'. I've seen what they can do to a man firsthand. And I believe I'm not the only one here." The two next to him voiced their agreement.

Riban still looked skeptical.

"Your men have the right of it, Lord Governor," came a new voice, and all eyes turned to the canoness. "Daemons exist. I've seen them, I've fought them, I have been closer to them than I am to you right now. I have smelled their stench, I have heard their foul voices. Cleansed their blood from my weapons and armor. The Emperor is my witness."

Riban let that sink in. Then he huffed. "So suppose 'daemons' exist. Why all this secrecy? Why tell us now?"

"It has long been the doctrine of the Ecclesiarchy that people must not be aware of these things, lest they are tempted to stray from righteousness," Odoni answered. "This knowledge is dangerous, and must only be revealed in times of dire need. Such times as now."

Riban scoffed again and shook his head. "Some keepers you are." Before anyone could react to that barb, he continued. "All right. Tell me about these daemons, and these heretics that serve them... and that are now on our doorstep."

Odoni nodded. "That's why we're here."

* * *

And they spoke. For hours, the prelate lectured them and often, Divilani or one of the soldiers would contribute to his report. Sour felt the rug pulled out from under him; all of a sudden, a whole new dark and terrifying reality was opened up before his eyes, and everything he had held true and safe was put into question. At the same time, many things he had just accepted all his life unquestioningly suddenly began to make a lot more sense: why Warp travel was so dangerous, why mutants and heretics were persecuted so severely, why witches could only be allowed to work and live under strict sanctions. Fear crept into him.  
Apparently, his uncle felt the same way, judging by his angry and incredulous outbursts.

The biggest shock was presented to them right at the end, when Odoni revealed that the enemy, the Arch Enemy, had soldiers like Astartes in their ranks, and that there was a high chance these traitor Astartes were also on those newly arrived ships. These were devastating prospects.

At last, silence fell over them. Riban stared into the air, his face grave.

"All right," he said eventually. "Let's talk defenses. I know our Guard capacities well enough." He looked at Divilani. "What do you bring to the table?"

"The Order of St. Belizar currently has thirteen thousand four hundred thirty six sisters under arms, as well as corresponding armor capabilities. In addition to that, twenty three thousand Sisters Hospitaller."

"That is something, at least. What about outside help? I wouldn't mind having some Astartes on our own side."

"Sector Command hast been informed," the prelate offered, "as well as the Emperor's most holy Inquisition. But chances are, any reinforcements we might get won't be here in time."

Riban said nothing to that. After a while, Odoni spoke again. "If that is all for now, perhaps we can be excused. We must prepare."

"Yes, you do that."

"Very well." Odoni and Divilani rose. "I'm assuming we will reconvene shortly. Until then, Emperor's blessing on all of us. Lord Governor. Lord General. Gentlemen."

"Yes, we should get going as well," Balthasar said. "We need to brief our lieutenants and put the troops on alert.

"Yes, absolutely," Soar answered. "And keep me posted."

"Of course, General. Lord Governor."

With that, the five left, leaving Soar and Riban behind.

* * *

When Odoni was sure to be out of hearing, he let out a loud sigh. "A difficult man, the governor. Hopefully next time they can find someone a little less complicated." The canoness didn't answer; her faced remained stoic.

* * *

Back in the conference room, neither Riban nor Soar had moved, both lost in thoughts. Eventually, Riban stood up and opened the shutters again. Both suns had set by then; only the horizon was still wearing a broad belt of orange. He stood there silently, and Soar moved next to him.

"What do you make of all this, uncle?"

Riban scoffed once again and vigorously shook his head. "Madness. Absolute madness. _Now_ they come out with these things. When the enemy is practically at our throats."

"Better late than never," Soar answered. "And it's not like we're without defense. We have the Guard, and the canoness seems formidable as well. If all the sisters are this intense, they must be truly a fearsome force."

"Intense," Riban shook his head again. "Not the word I'd use. In _sane_ more like. You know, I've heard rumors about how they train those girls in the convents. What they _do_ to them. Madness."

"Still, we can consider ourselves lucky to have them on our side."

His uncle turned to him and gave him a strange look. "Let's hope they _are_ on our side." Without waiting for an answer, he turned away. "Well it's not use. We must make the best of this situation. Go, and see to your duties. I will do the same. Martial law will be declared within the hour."

"Very well uncle."

"And Soar? Get some sleep."

"I will, uncle. See you soon."

* * *

Outside, Soar found that lieutenant Belzin wasn't where he'd left her. No doubt she had found some work to keep herself busy. _She_ might _even have gone to sleep_. Either way, he needed to find her immediately.

* * *

 **AN: Another chapter already?! Yes. Enjoy. And thanks for reading.**


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